Divine Anger
by x-kali-x
Summary: Seventeen princes, eight divines, and twenty five trials leading to some unknown outcome. Her visions no longer contain themselves to bad dreams and drunken fits and his face is the only common factor the Dragonborn can find between reality and dreams.
1. Down to Nirn

"I've humoured you long enough Dragonborn," Ulfric thundered, rising from his seat.

"Humoured me?" the slight figure at the head of the table snapped. "It's hardly _humouring_ _me_ to obey your own laws and traditions, _Jarl_ Ulfric. Wasn't it you who told the people that there would be a Kingsmoot, that you would follow tradition? A Kingsmoot has at last been called and a King will be elected in the way of your ancestors. You have just as much chance as anyone else of becoming High King, so long as you get nominated."

"She's right, Ulfric," Vignar Grey-mane said with a sigh.

"Then I nominate myself," Ulfric growled, settling back into his seat.

"Good. Anyone else want to add a nomination?" the Dragonborn asked, shifting the ebony mask that covered her face.

"I nominate jarl Elisif for the position," Laila Law Giver shouted.

"She isn't even a Jarl," Ulfric spat, "What is her place at this table?"

"Tradition," the Dragonborn said, not even turning to look at the irate Jarl.

"Thank you, Laila. I accept the nomination," Elisif said, as though Ulfric had not interrupted at all.

"I nominate myself also," Maven Black-Briar said in her usual tones of clipped control. Someone across the table let out a bark of laughter and the Dragonborn shifted to see Skald, very clearly amused.

"You were Jarl of a skeeverpit for about a month, Maven. What makes you think you can be High Queen of Skyrim?"

"She has as much right as the rest of you," the Dragonborn interrupted, drumming her fingers on the table. "No other nominations? Fine then. I nominate Balgruuf the Greater."

"You never were a Jarl, you have no right-" Ulfric began.

"Correction," she held up a single finger. "I am a thane of every single city within this country, and this alone gives me the right, just as it gave me the right to be here during the moot at all. Add to this that I am quite probably the single most influential person about this table, including those with links to the thieves guild and dark brotherhood I might add, and quite honestly I'd like to see you stop me." The light glinted on the metal about the eye holes of the mask, the face within concealed entirely by either shadow or magic. "Balgruuf, do you accept the nomination?" she asked, turning to the imposing figure half way down the table.

"I will," he replied after a moment, "If you tell me why you have thrown my name in this pit."

"Because you are a good man. You demonstrated – more than once – during this war that you care for your people more than your own good. You didn't dive into the war, and in fact only joined when you truly had to. To me, this makes you by far the best suited to lead a country." A pregnant silence fell as everyone processed what was indeed a thoughtful compliment for Balgruuf, but also a very clear insult to Ulfric.

"The people will be waiting," the Dragonborn said after a moment. "It is time for the candidates to make their stand." She rose and headed from the room. Various important people lined the corridors of the blue palace, but at the sight of the masked figure they scurried out into the sunshine.

The streets of solitude were packed to bursting point with citizens from across Skyrim. With a single glance the Dragonborn could pick out a vast number of faces she recognised – Lydia was standing at the back, and waved discreetly, eyebrows raised; Mirabelle and Tolfdir weren't too far away from her, although they made no sign that they recognised the figure in the mask. To one side, Brynjolf and Karliah were hidden among the shadows, but as the Jarls and ex-Jarls filed into view they moved forward, ready to see how this would end. They too made no gesture of recognition to the masked woman. Delphine was scowling (she disapproved of the whole thing) from the right of the crowd, while Esbern simply looked on in a sort of bemused interest.

"The nominations are as follows," she shouted over the crowd. "Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm." There was much foot stomping, loud cheers and whistles as Ulfric stepped forward. "Jarl Vignar Grey-Mane of Whiterun." There was a muted response – Vignar was new to his role, unknown outside his own hold. "Jarl Elisif of Solitude." Naturally this was a response not dissimilar to that Ulfric had received. Elisif had been the face of the Empire's campaign, and this was her city. "Maven Black-Briar of Riften." People seemed unsure how to react to this nomination. They had of course all heard of the Black-Briar family – it was impossible to live in Skyrim and not encounter them after all – but not many actually knew all that much of the secretive family. "And finally, Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun." Those who had cheered for Elisif cheered for Balgruuf, who stepped forward to complete the line of nominees.

"Each Jarl will step forward and make his or her attempt to win your votes, or else nominate a champion in their place," the Dragonborn shouted over the stomping. "Let each of them be heard fairly." She stepped back and, naturally, Ulfric stepped forward to take his stand first.

As she had predicted, he started by going on about the war, about their glorious victories (most of which had been down to her anyway, although he seemed to gloss over that), but it was when he began to talk about his plans for Skyrim in the future that it truly became interesting.

"We have rid ourselves of the Thalmor!" he bellowed, "But I say why should we stop there? Skyrim is for Nords, and Nords only!" The vast majority of the crowd cheered with him, but there were a few who looked askance at their neighbours. This was the part that would either make or break Ulfric's entire campaign. The Dragonborn glanced at Karliah, whose eyes had narrowed and whose fingers were clearly itching to reach for the bow that sat upon her back even now. "We don't need any elves telling us magic is superior! We don't need a Redguard to show us how to fight! A free Skyrim is one for the Nords!" He stomped his foot once, setting off the crowd again, and moved back into the line.

Each of the prospective Jarls had something to say. Grey-Mane spoke of tradition, and Maven talked about the position in terms of business and what she could bring to Skyrim. Elisif did not speak for herself, but instead nominated her steward, Falk Firebeard to speak as her champion. When Balgruuf's turn came and he took a step forward, so did the Dragonborn. "I would ask leave to speak as your champion." She said quietly so that only he could hear. He hesitated for a moment and then nodded. She stepped forward and for the first time the crowd was truly silent, everyone present waiting for her to speak.

"I have many regrets stemming from my work in recent years," she said at last. "Many people died in the war, and not an insignificant number of those were at my hands. My greatest regret, however, was the loss of Jarl Balgruuf for Whiterun. I have not, and probably will never, forgive myself for joining that fight. When Ulfric Stormcloak ordered me to attack the city, it was the closest I ever came to disobeying one of his orders. Balgruuf is a good man, one who will put his people first, keep their interests at the forefront of his mind at all times. The fact that he managed to keep them from entering the war for so long when they sat in the centre of it should tell everyone that. To those who supported the Stormcloaks and ask why he sided with the empire, I say it was for his people! Balgruuf is a Nord and worships Talos as much as anyone here. I support him in this Kingsmoot as High King of Skyrim!" When she finished, the crowd erupted, cheering and whooping. She smiled slightly under her mask. Really, she could have said anything and the reaction would have been the same. They just wanted to hear the Dragonborn speak, wanted to show their appreciation for everything she had done. She had saved many lives by bringing the war to what many considered a premature close, and she had saved the souls of all Nords by journeying to Sovngarde and killing the devourer of worlds. But she hadn't finished yet.

"Some here will call me Dragonborn, Dohvakiin. Others will call me Stormblade. I forsake the title Stormblade here, today. I do not wish to be associated with the Grim events of the Siege of Solitude. Upon that day, when General Tullius lay dying upon the ground, Ulfric Stormcloak turned to me and asked me to kill him, to create a story sure to send him onto Skyrim's high throne. I refused. Ulfric Stormcloak is a war hero, let that never be forgotten, but he is also a bully, a brute and not suitable for the position of High King." Without even turning she knew the rage that would be written across Ulfric's face. They had never truly got on – how could they in truth? – but this was something more.

"Tell me," Ulfric shouted, stepping forward. "Why am I so unsuitable?"

"You persecute all those who are different to yourself, Stormcloak," she replied calmly. "The Thalmor have no right to rule in Skyrim, to ban the worship of your Gods, but that does not make it right to force out the Dunmer, the Orcs, the Redguards, the Bosmer. What have they done to earn your anger? What great sin have they committed that they should be thrown from the country?"

"They do not abide our laws!"

"They abide them as well as any Nord. True, perhaps they may not worship the same Gods as you, but I would have thought that Skyrim of all places would appreciate a freedom of worship!" she shouted the last words, turning to the crowd as they cheered once more. She was beating Ulfric, and it was easy. Delphine was smiling, Tolfdir had an amused expression on his face and Karliah had relaxed, with even a slight hint of a smile playing around her lips.

"So tell us, people of Skyrim," she went on, "Out of these nominees, who is your High King or Queen?"

Truly it was no contest. The shouts erupted and, while a quiet few cheered for Elisif, Vignar, Ulfric or even Maven, it was quite clear who the crowd had chosen. "Balgruuf!" they shouted, over and over again, "Balgruuf! Jarl Balgruuf of Skyrim!"

She turned to him to see the shock on his face, as though he had truly not expected this outcome, had not believed it possible. She was smiling beneath her mask, however, as she turned back to the crowd, she caught a glimpse of some bright light as it flew towards her. Recognising a spell she instantly threw up her strongest ward, one that had protected her from death more than a few times over the past month. The spell struck the magic field and it shattered. People screamed as the Dragonborn was thrown backwards into the wall of the Blue Palace and slid, motionless to the ground.

* * *

><p>"I said leave the mask," Balgruuf snapped as people rushed to and fro. The healer jumped back and nodded, just as the door opened and Mirabelle Ervine entered.<p>

"I came as quickly as I could get through," she said in a business like tone. "I'm afraid I'm the best you've got to hand – Colette remained in Winterhold, and to the best of my knowledge the Priestess of Kynareth remained in Whiterun.

"Danica stayed behind, yes," Balgruuf said, nodding.

"Well I can't do much unless I know what's wrong," Mirabelle said, turning to the still unconscious Dragonborn, "And I can't do that if she's still in the mask."

"Everyone else out," Balgruuf said after a moment. "If you've never seen her out of that mask and your name is not Mirabelle Ervine, I want you out of this room this instant." Everyone obeyed and within seconds the room was clear but for himself, the sorceress and Lydia, the Dragonborn's housecarl. "You tell no one who she is," Balgruuf said firmly. "Very few people know, and those that do are sworn to secrecy."

"Why?" Mirabelle asked, clearly bemused.

"She likes to earn things on her own merit, not that of her title," Lydia explained. "I think you'll understand soon."

"Of course," Mirabelle turned and unclipped the hood that covered the back of the woman's head, peeling it away. She was a little shocked to see the pointed ears of an elf beneath the hood. "That explains why she didn't support Ulfric I suppose," she said, not even glancing up, "But I must say I expected the Dragonborn to be a Nord."

"Most people do," Lydia said, shrugging. Mirabelle lifted the mask, surprised at how heavy the thing was, as otherwise the Dragonborn only ever seemed to wear robes, and almost dropped it. In fact, she would have done had Lydia not been ready to take it from her.

"Is something wrong?" Balgruuf asked.

"No," Lydia said, taking the mask and stepping back, "They know each other, I think."

"Know each other?" Mirabelle spluttered. "She is the Arch Mage."

"She is? She never told me that," Lydia said with a scowl.

"So let me get this straight?" Balgruuf said, smiling a little. "A college full of some of Tamriel's strongest sorcerer's let the Dragonborn in, watched her become Arch Mage and _never knew_ she was the Dragonborn? If I hadn't promised to keep her secret, that would have made a priceless story."

"You get it now though, don't you?" Lydia asked. "Why she didn't want you to know she was Dragonborn?"

"I suppose so," Mirabelle said, turning to back to the elf on the table. Carefully, she pushed one eye open, revealing a brilliant orange iris. As she checked over her, Balgruuf realised just how long it had been since he had seen the elf's face. She had been very young, when she first came to him with news from Riverwood and Helgen, perhaps seventeen at the most. Now she was a striking woman in her mid-twenties, her face made memorable by the orange markings he thought might now be tattooed upon her face, as many of them were these days. When he had first met her, the war paint had been smudged in red across her face, rather than the intricate swirls that now covered her cheeks, and she had been dusted with ash and splattered with blood, some of it her own.

Then she had killed a dragon, taken its soul and the Greybeards had called for her. "I think she's waking up," Lydia said from where she was standing by the Dragonborn's head. "Iona, can you hear me?" Balgruuf had almost forgotten the name, it had been so long since he heard it. Iona blinked and sat up slowly, blinking rapidly. She looked around and saw Mirabelle standing by her bed and instantly her hands moved to her face, feeling the absence of the mask. Her cheeks flushed, visible even under the red ink and Mirabelle smiled.

"I won't tell the others," she said in what was probably as close to reassuring as her voice ever came, "But I must admit it was quite a shock."

"I'll be fine anyway," Iona said, wincing a little as she pushed herself from the bed, "Just some bruising from the impact, I think. Did anyone see who did it?"

"Afraid not," Lydia said, clearly unhappy about the fact, "But Talos knows you've got enough enemies."

"And probably made a few more today with that stunt," Balgruuf said, although he could not stop himself smiling a little.

"Honestly, I just wanted to see you in the jagged crown," Iona laughed as she sent a rush of healing magic through her body, banishing the ache from her muscles. She straightened the blue master robes she wore and took her mask from Lydia. When she had started to hide her identity she had used a simple cowl and mask, but finding the dragon masks had truly been a stroke of luck. They were so easily recognisable, so unique, that she could create a face for the Dragonborn that wasn't her own. Recognisable and yet easily hidden. "Come on Lydia, I wanted to drop into Proudspire before we went to Falkreath."

"Of course my thane." Iona scowled. Lydia only ever did that because it annoyed her. She shoved her mask on and turned to Mirabelle. "I should drop into the college soon, if you want to check up on me."

"Yes, Arch Mage." Iona sighed and Lydia smiled, knowing that the irate thane was almost certainly rolling her eyes. She stormed from the room and Lydia followed. She had already loosened the straps on her sword should there be another attack, and was grateful that Proudspire was so close to the Blue palace. However, when they reached the front and could see out of the window, it was clear that it might just take them some time to reach the house nonetheless. There was still a humongous crowd. Iona laughed a little at the sight of Esbern and Delphine (mainly Delphine) clearly becoming quite irate with the guard refusing them entry to the Blue Palace.

"So," Iona said matter-of-factly, "Do we try like this or without the mask?"

"Probably better to go with the mask," Balgruuf's voice called from the top of the stairs. "They'll want to know you're alright."

"I don't like it," Lydia said, biting the inside of her cheek and peering through the window again.

"I'll just shout if anyone gets too close then, right?" Iona laughed. Lydia knew she was joking, but sometimes she wished Iona would do just that. She was next to useless in close combat, which was exactly why she almost always had someone with her, be it Lydia (as it more often than not was), one of the blades, or even one of her other housecarls. "On three," she said, now with some seriousness. "One… two… three!" They pushed open the doors and stepped into the evening sunlight. The sound of the crowd increased dramatically at the sight of Iona, who raised a hand and waved to assure them that she was alright. When Delphine pushed past the guard, Iona shook her head to indicate that she shouldn't follow. Delphine sighed, but knew it wouldn't be worth following if Iona didn't want to talk.

By the time they reached Proudspire the sun had set. Iona locked the door behind them with more than a little relief. "Come on, let's go." She said, heading down the stairs and pulling off her mask.

"Who are you going to be in Falkreath?" Lydia asked.

"Guild Master," Iona replied, fishing in a pouch at her waist, searching for the right key. Lydia sighed. She didn't particularly like this part of Iona's life (and at times Iona herself seemed rather discomforted by it), and it didn't fit at all with the woman Lydia knew, but she was a housecarl, and it was not her duty to question (or report) anything her thane did. "Aha!" Iona cried in triumph, pulling out a small, rusty key. She knelt down and slotted it into the trapdoor beneath the stairs and together they descended. Lydia felt the familiar tingle of magic as they were transported to wherever the hell this place really was, and shivered.

Lydia settled herself on the bench just through the door at the bottom of the steps as Iona went on. She had never seen much of the secret home Iona had built herself, simply the doors that connected it to her other hosues – Proudspire, Hjerim, Breezehome, Vlindrel Hall and Honeyside.

Iona, meanwhile, hurried deeper underground to the armoury. Row on row of mannequins were on display, one wearing the Robes of the Arch mage, a whole set in master robes for each discipline. To one side was a complete set of deadric armour forged with a sigil stone on the atronach alter beneath the college, but most were simply empty. She hurried to a corner, where the Nightingale Armour granted to her by Nocturnal, as well as her Guild Master's leather, were sitting. She hesitated for a moment and then decided to go for the Nightingale set. She then grabbed a knife (she felt a theif should carry a knife, even if she was next to useless with it) and hurried back to join Lydia.

Together they headed up into Breezehome. Lydia headed to her room and Iona to her own, laying the Nightingale Armour down on the dresser before stripping her robes and falling into the furs on the bed. They had to be out early in the morning, and she wanted to be as well rested as possible.

She had strange dreams that night, of faces she half remembered but couldn't place, people who she knew she should call out to, should know but didn't. When she woke it took her far too long to shake it off than she was honestly comfortable. They were awake early and left Whiterun before the sun was up. Iona stopped only to drop a note at Dragonsreach with a report of the Kingsmoot included. A guard would find it when the sun rose and the city could celebrate/mourn as they deemed appropriate. The weather was pleasant enough for a walk south, skirting the shadow of High Hrothgar. Naturally, however, they had been walking barely half an hour when they were met by a group of bandits.

Iona had always thought bandits would know better than to choose targets who even vaguely looked as though they could defend themselves, but shortly after arriving in Skyrim she had learnt otherwise.

"Pay up," one of them – the biggest, stupidest and therefore probably in charge – growled.

"Do we have to?" Iona complained. "I really don't have time for this."

"That's right, antagonise the armed bandits," Lydia sighed. Iona shrugged and raised her hands in the air, flames licking about her fingertips.

"Run," she hissed at Lydia, who didn't need to be told twice. She'd been caught on the edge of one of Iona's strongest spells before and it wasn't something she ever intended to do again. She darted at one of the badits, sword flashing, and knocked him aside, leaping for cover behind a nearby boulder. She held her breath, waiting for the explosion… that never came. Instead she heard a single, quiet, "Shit." Lydia's stomach dropped into her shoes. Something was very wrong. Even as she moved to her feet there was a defeaning shout and flames erupted from the slight figure of the elf as the bandits closed in. "YOL TOOR!" Now Lydia was very worried. If Iona was resorting to the voice when not wearing her mask… she didn't want to think about it. She ran forward, a counter ticking in her head. She knew it took Iona a few moments to recover from the use of the voice, but she could never remember quite how long it was for each shout.

Her sword clashed with that of a bandit as she moved between him and Iona and he stumbled backwards and tripped over the burnt remains of the unfortunate man who had been in the path of Iona's voice. Lydia made sure he didn't get up again and turned to face the other three. One of them was badly burnt, kneeling on the ground and moaning in pain, but the other two had escaped without any visible injury. There was, however, some nervousness in their eyes. Very few people would have chosen to fight against anyone with the power of the voice. Lydia leapt at one of them, her sword arm jarred as he brought his warhammer crashing into her blade. She stumbled back but stayed on her feet, aware that Iona was moving to her feet.

"STRUN BAH QO!" The sky above them darkened and Lydia felt her heart sink a little. She hated this one, even if it was effective. Even as this thought crossed her mind a bolt of lightening skittered to the ground not too far away, accompanied by an unearthly boom of thunder. The bandits looked at each other in fear and then at Iona, eyes wide. They ran, but they didn't get far with the enchanted storm raging above them. Lydia silenced the cries of the wounded bandit and turned to her friend. She stopped, heart now in her mouth, as she saw the blood. She cried out and ran forward, gently turning Iona over. There was a long gash across her stomach and she seemed to be slipping in and out of consciousness.

_Riverwood!_ She thought. If they could get to Riverwood, they could use Delphine's hidden space in the inn and Iona could recover. "Can you heal yourself a little?" Lydia asked, shouting over the rain and thunder. "We need to get to Riverwood."

"Can't heal," Iona gasped.

"Of course you can," Lydia insisted. "I've seen you heal worse than this before."

"Can't heal," Iona repeated, "Can't do anything."

"What do you mean?" she shouted in exhasperation.

"My magic… it's gone."

* * *

><p><strong>Vilkas will actually be in the next chapter, promise :D<strong>


	2. The First Piece of the Puzzle

Lydia hadn't seen or heard anything from Iona in almost three weeks now, which was more than a little worrying. She usually poked her head up at the very least, even if she didn't hang around for more than an hour or so. They had barely made it back to Whiterun in time for Iona to stumble into the Temple of Kynareth still alive, and the moment she had been healed she had turned and left, leaving Lydia to make a donation and thank Danica for her efforts. She had arrived at Breezehome just in time to hear the lock on the trapdoor click.

It was times like this when she wished she could pick locks, Lydia thought to herself as she approached the city. The smell alone made her loathe to visit Riften and even less did she want the company she would find here, but she needed their help. Iona had showed her the secret entrance to the cistern a few months ago, and told her if she went in and used her name someone would know what to do with her.

Nevertheless, she moved with not some small amount of trepidation down the ladder, and turned to find a drawn bow pointing towards her head. "How did you know about that entrance?" the dunmer on the other side hissed.

"Iona told me," she replied.

"And why would Iona tell you that?" The bow didn't even lower a fraction.

"In case I ever need your help – Karliah, right?" The eyes shadowed by the Nightingale mask widened slightly in surprise.

"And you come here to find it?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes, but not for myself. Iona's missing, I'm worried about her."

"She can defend herself," Karliah dismissed, finally lowering her bow.

"I'm not so sure she can at the moment," Lydia insisted. "I haven't heard from her in almost three weeks. I just need you to pick one lock, here in Riften. I'll pay."

"How much?"

"200 Septims."

"500, at least."

"250."

"450."

"350, final offer," Lydia said, eyes set.

"Done. Where is the lock?"

"Honeyside," Lydia said as she turned back to the ladder and began to pull herself back up. "Come on."

"Honeyside?" Karliah mused, wondering what the Thane's house could have to do with all this. She shook her head and followed the armoured woman out of the sewers into the early morning sunlight. To her surprise, it clearly wasn't the front door Karliah had been charged to pick, for her companion had a key that slotted with ease into the lock.

"There," Lydia said, pointing at a trapdoor in the corner. "Unlock that." Karliah moved over and bent down to have a look, fishing for her picks and tools. It was a complicated lock, that much was certain.

"It's trapped," she said at last. "I can unlock it, but then when you open it there'll be some kind of magical outburst."

"Do it anyway," Lydia said stubbornly, moving to a chair just across from the trapdoor. Karliah was good at her job – after only a few minutes the lock had clicked.

"You pay now, and then I leave before you open it," Karliah said bluntly.

"Here," Lydia chucked over a bag of gold she'd extracted from her bag while Karliah was working. The thief caught it and left without looking back. Lydia locked the door and left the key in the lock. Turning the trapdoor, a thin smile touched her lips. She headed over to her pack and pulled the shield strapped to the side onto her arm. Spellbreaker, Iona had called it. Lydia had no idea how she'd gotten hold of it, just that her Thane never seemed to have any use for it and so had given it to the housecarl. Raising it, Lydia saw the air distort as the magic repelling properties of the shield began to take effect.

Carefully, she edged forward and with the very tip of a finger, flipped the trapdoor open. The explosion was muted as she shoved the shield down on top of it, but still small tendrils of ice crept out in a spider web from the edges, and the temperature of the room dropped considerably. After a few moments, Lydia lifted the shield, hearing ice crack and break as she did so, and descended the stairs.

The door at the bottom was thankfully unlocked and she passed through into the entrance hall, looking around for signs of life. No one was there, but as always the candles burned in their brackets, showing no sign that they had been lit more than a few seconds ago. She headed for the only door she had never entered and tentatively pushed down upon the handle. It swung open noiselessly and she moved down a set of stairs, into a wide hallway. At one end stood a display – all nine of Iona's dragon priest masks, some burnt others scratched, were there – and at the other a door. This door led to a smithy, complete with workbench, grindstone and even an altar of enchanting. Why on Earth Iona had a smithy Lydia had no clue – she was useless at smithing, couldn't even make decent steel, never mind use the vast array of expensive ingots that lined the walls here.

She searched longer, finding a room full of armour and individual weapons, a dining room and a kitchen that looked as though it had simultaneously been exposed to a thunderstorm and a raging fire. Thinking about it, Lydia realised it probably had. Finally, she found the bedroom. The room was uncomfortably hot and the bed piled high with furs, the slim figure buried beneath them barely visible.

Hesitantly, Lydia moved forward to see that Iona was sleeping. Whether this was a natural sleep or one brought about by the vast number of empty mead bottles on the floor was simply too easy to guess. Lydia sighed and headed to the side where a large jug of water was sitting. She picked it up and moved over to the bed, throwing it on the wood elf's head.

Iona spluttered and glared at Lydia with red rimmed, blood shot eyes. "What the hell?" she asked, as Lydia pushed the furs to one side. "Get up," Lydia snapped, throwing the silver jug to one side. "By Talos how much have you had?"

"Not that much?" Iona protested, pulling the furs over her eyes.

"I haven't seen you this hungover since you went drinking with that Sam!" Lydia cried. He was always _that Sam_. Iona had never told Lydia exactly who _that Sam_ had turned out to be. "Move or I swear I'll carry you through Solitude for the world to see."

"I don't care," Iona's muffled voice replied.

"You're pathetic," Lydia sniffed. "You always do this when things don't go your way and if you're not careful it'll overtake you."

"No it won't."

"Yes it will," Lydia replied through gritted teeth. "Gods only know how you've kept it a secret this long – is that what the masks are really for, because honestly I'm not sure at times!" Lydia rarely raised her voice, preferring sardonic comments to genuine rage, but this wasn't the first time the bipolar nature of her mistress had driven her close to tears. "You're my friend, Iona. I've kept all your secrets, I've told no one about the guild, or about the alcohol, but damnit sometime you're gonna slip up and everyone will know."

"The alcohol isn't a problem," Iona grunted.

"No, I'd agree. The odd drink every now and then is fine, but getting absolutely smashed when you _know_ you're liable to Shout or lose control of your magic when under…"

"Not likely to do that anymore, am I?" There was a hard edge of bitterness to her voice and she pushed the blankets down, blinking even at the soft light from the candles.

"Come on," Lydia said, a little more gently, "You need to get up." Lydia pulled Iona to her feet and realised a moment too late that the Thane was in nothing but her under garments. "Go wash up," she directed. "Get yourself dressed and meet me in the dining room." As Iona shuffled to the washbasin, Lydia shirked off her armour, revealing the plain clothes underneath, and headed back to the kitchen.

Most of whatever had been stored within had been completely decimated by Iona's drunken Shouting, but she managed to find a couple of mugs with only a few scorch marks, and there had been water and some food in the dining room. She moved through and settled down to wait for Iona.

When eventually the Dragonborn entered the room (wet hair plastered to her forehead and wearing a dress that hadn't even been tied properly) Lydia pushed her into a seat and watched her to make sure she ate and drank enough.

"You need to get a hang of these fits," Lydia sighed when Iona had finished. "This is the third time this year and eventually it's going to happen when someone needs you."

"Like I could help anyway," Iona said, shrugging.

"Remember when you first came to Skyrim?" Lydia asked. "You could barely conjure a spark. Since then you've become _Arch Mage_ of the College of Winterhold. The College of Whispers, even the Synod, are falling at the feet of the College these days, something they haven't done in years!"

"That's Mirabelle, not me. I'm never even there."

"Well if you're drunk all the time I'm not surprised. Have you seen the mess you made of the kitchen?"

"No," Iona looked down at her hands and swallowed. She wondered idly if it was worse than last time, or the time before that. Probably not, she decided. She'd lost control of her magic then as well as her Voice, had decimated a whole wing of the underground house. "I can't just have the Voice," she said at last. "That isn't enough to fight dragons, win wars or do any of the endless tasks the people of Skyrim seem to expect me to do." Her eyes flashed as she glared at Lydia – an almost accusing look in her eyes, a decidedly bitter, defensive edge to her voice. Lydia was used to this, however.

"You need to figure out a way to defend yourself without magic then."

"But…"

"And then you need to do what you should have started three weeks ago. The thing I assumed you would do from the off, actually."

"And what's that?" Iona scoffed.

"Figure out what happened, find the person to blame, beat them into a bloody pulp until they fix it." There was a beat of silence.

"I feel really stupid now."

"That's because you are really stupid," Lydia said with narrowed eyes. "So far the only thing I can think of is that spell during…"

"During the Kingsmoot," Iona nodded. "The whole of Skyrim knew I'd be there that day, I was an easy target."

"Unfortunately the whole of Skyrim was also present, meaning it could have been just about anyone," Lydia sighed. Iona poured herself another mug of water and downed it.

"Can you help me learn to protect myself then?" she asked eventually, looking up at Lydia.

"Nah, I'd be a crap teacher," Lydia said hastily. "Could you train with the blades?"

"There's only five of them. Three are sorcerers, if you include Esbern, Delphine never stays around long enough and you know Argis wouldn't train me in a million years."

"You never did tell me what happened," Lydia laughed.

"Suffice to say it involved a lot of mead, an amulet of Mara and three highly pissed off sabrecats."

"I think I'll just leave it at that," Lydia said, still laughing. "No explanation can be funnier than what I'm picturing at the moment." She calmed down and thought for a moment. "You could always join the…"

"No." Iona said before she could finish the sentence.

"Why not? They've got some of the best fighters in Skyrim, and you said yourself Ysgramor was a nice enough guy when you met him in Sovngarde."

"But… no."

"That's not a reason."

"I don't want to."

"Still not a good enough reason," Lydia said with a smile, triumph clear on her face. "It's obviously the best option. They wouldn't send a whe… a trainee out on anything particularly dangerous without a shield brother or sister, so you should be fine."

"But…"

"No excuses! I'm giving you one day to clean up your act and then you're going to Jorrvaskr tomorrow if I have to drag you there myself."

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><p>Iona had another dream that night. She'd been having the dreams as long as she could remember, but that said she'd never before been able to remember the dreams themselves. Now, faces flashed before her eyes, along with names she should be able to relate with them. Terrible visions assaulted her, things that shouldn't be possible and yet were right there in front of her, rearing their heads and roaring like the Dragons that terrorised her waking hours.<p>

Sleep had never been a true escape, but the dreams had never come this frequently. They had been an occasional thing, something that came maybe once or twice a year – never every day for three weeks straight. Lydia called her odd fits of drink "unusual behaviour". Iona simply thought of them as a natural reaction.

When she'd first arrived in Skyrim, she'd thought avoiding dragons would be her greatest concern. A few days later, she'd thought it would be avoiding getting killed by dragons (a slight if significant difference). She knew she'd rather face a hundred dragons at once than be plagued by these dreams for the rest of her life.

She was walking down a street at night, with no torches to light her way, no guards to smile and wave in greeting. The Imperial city was an odd place to be at night. She stood near the feet of the statue of Akatosh and raised her eyes to look upon the dragon's face.

It moved, roared, breathed fire, a terrible premonition of what her life had become. A voice. _"Sorry, my dearest friend."_ A face she couldn't put a name to, a name she couldn't find the face for, whirling together until she wanted to scream, had to scream, could do nothing other than scream and yet had to bite down upon her cheeks when she woke because she was Dragonborn, and the souls within her roared for their lost freedom, pined for the great skies and would wreak destruction should she let them.

She woke and swung her legs over the side of the bed, cold sweat beading across her entire body. Already the souls within her were calming, her breathing coming slightly slower. This build up in her nightmares could not be coincidence, she decided, wishing there was some water in her room (or better yet some mead, but Lydia had made sure there was none of that in Breezehome and had confiscated her key to the underground house). She sighed and resigned herself to the fact that she wasn't going to sleep, her eyes drawn to the leather armour heaped in the corner of the room. She hated armour at the best of times, even the lighter stuff, and she certainly couldn't be doing with anything heavy). She had alsopicked out a weapon – Chillrend, a glass sword she had lifted from Mercer Frey's house. Just because she had no powers didn't mean she wasn't going to protect herself as best she could. It glowed faintly blue in the dark of the small house, producing its own soft shimmer.

Lydia was right, although Iona hated to admit it. She had to go to Jorrvaskr. As she climbed the steps the following morning, Iona almost wished she had made this journey as the Dragonborn, but Lydia's reasoning for doing it without the mask was sound. _"People don't know the Dragonborn has lost her magic. The fewer people know, I'd say the better."_ She took a deep breath and pushed open the door. Instantly the heat of the large fire washed over her, and she stepped forward, allowing the door to swing shut behind her. A couple of people were in the room, but neither of them spared her more than a glance as she stood indecisive for a moment.

"Excuse me, who's in charge about here?" she asked the nearest of the two after a few seconds.

"You'll mean the old man," he replied, scratching at his unshaven chin. "He's downstairs," he jerked his thumb to the right of the room. "At the end of the corridor."

"Thanks," she said with a nod, following his direction. She supposed most of the warriors were out on jobs, or else training behind the hall, for she saw no one else until she reached what must be the right door, ajar at the end of the corridor. Two voices were audible behind it.

"But I still feel the call of the blood." A man's voice, low and a little exasperated.

"That is the challenge we must bear," an older voice replied. "But hush, we will continue this conversation later. A stranger approaches." Knowing the man was referring to herself, Iona pushed open the door. "You wish to join the companions?" the old man – Kodlak, she was certain – asked.

"I do."

"Hmm," the old man looked her up and down as though appraising her, his eyes resting on the sword at her hip. "Are you any good with that sword."

Honestly? No. Iona hated swords. In fact, the only things she hated more were axes and hammers. They were brutal, messy and all in all relied far too much on hand-eye co-ordination for her taste. (So maybe the last part of that list had the greatest effect, but she hated them nonetheless). "I… have much to learn," she said at last.

"That is a good way to look at it," Kodlak said, the corner of his lips twitching.

"You can't be serious Harbinger?" the man sitting across from him said incredulously. Iona glanced at him, and then did a double take. Bits and pieces of her dreams flashed before her eyes. This face – the face of this companion – had been there, she was sure of it.

"Last time I checked we had many beds at Jorrvaskr for those with a strong arm and fire in their hearts! Come Vilkas, why don't you be the one to test her skills?"

"I'll do just that," Vilkas said, rising to his feet. Iona swallowed. He was huge, towering above her with ease, his armour heavy and padded. The large sword at his back told her that he was strong too, something she hardly had any trouble believing. "Come on then," he headed from the room and Iona followed. There was even something familiar in the way he walked. She was quite sure she'd never met anyone by the name of Vilkas before, so she had no explanation as to why he would be in her dreams.

She shook herself out of her stupor and followed the nord. "You'll have to take one of our swords for training," he said without looking round. "We don't practise with enchanted blades."

"Right," Iona said, nodding before she realised he wouldn't see it anyway.

"There's a rack by the door, help yourself." Iona grabbed a steel sword of about the same length as Chillrend and followed Vilkas into the yard. He drew his own sword and settled into what was clearly an easy, well-practised stance. Iona nibbled on the edge of her lip a little, the sword feeling unfamiliar in her hand, the weight a little off. She had a leather shield strapped to her arm just in case, but one thing she did know was how to avoid being hit. Years with no defence against swords other than her speed had ensure that, and the lessening amount of new scars year on year showed that she was only getting better.

Still, when Vilkas ran at her she was surprised by his own speed, and barely managed to pull he shield up in time. The blow jarred her arm, which suddenly felt numb, a little useless. She winced as she jumped back, eyes fixed on her opponent and desperately trying to avoid looking at the group of spectators forming on the porch area. Vilkas was also focused, his eyes trained on her and no hint of what he might do next visible on his face.

Iona knew she couldn't let him dictate the entire fight, knew she had to make the next move. She leapt forwards and attempted a strike which Vilkas parried, before ducking down and trying to go under his arms. He wasn't fooled, however, and she had to roll to one side to avoid his blade. Soon, she found herself backed against the high wall of the yard, Vilkas sword against her throat. Truly, it hadn't been much of a fight.

"Yield?" he asked, his face still giving nothing away.

"I yield," she gasped, out of breath and drenched with sweat. Vilkas stepped back and sheathed his greatsword as she put her hands on her knees to recover. Her own weapon lay a couple of feet away where Vilkas had knocked it from her grip.

"Tough luck," Vilkas said as she retrieved her sword. "Maybe try when you can actually keep hold of the sword." Iona's grip tightened on the hilt, her knuckles turning white as she fought to bite back a cutting response. She'd just have to find someone else to train her. Maybe she could follow Delphine until she gave in, or pester Lydia enough that she would at least try.

"Farkas!" Someone shouted. "Show our newest recruit to her bed." Iona froze, her eyes moving to the porch with some incredulity. Everyone had stopped to stare at Kodlak Whitemane as he stepped forward from the shadows. Iona gaped, unsure how she was supposed to react.

"Harbinger, are you sure?"

"As sure as I was when first I inducted you into our halls, Aela," Kodlak replied, not taking his eyes from Iona. "This one has the spirit of a companion, and only a fool would turn her away from Jorrvaskr." He turned and headed back into the hall. There was a moment silence, followed by not a little grumbling. Iona watched Vilkas storming away, anger clear on his face as he followed Kodlak.

"The old man thinks you're good enough, then that's enough for me." She turned to see the nord who had directed her to Kodlak in the first place smiling at her.

"Farkas?" She asked hopefully.

"Yeah that's me. Don't mind my brother, he'll get over it. Come on, beds are downstairs." Iona was well practised at ignoring the stares of others, but it was definitely harder without her mask to hide her face. She concentrated on keeping her eyes ahead of her, not looking at those who were still muttering about Kodlak's decision to give her a bed.

"Here," Farkas said, opening the door to the mercifully empty sleeping room. "Pick a bed and fall in, that's what most people do. Report to me or Aela when you want work, it's probably best if you avoid Vilkas and Skjorr for the time being."

"Right," Iona said, nodding as she set down the steel sword by a bed and loosed the belt that held Chillrend against her waist. Already, muscles she hadn't known she possessed were starting to ache, and she still had a very slight headache from all the mead and ale she had consumed in the past week. She lay back amongst the furs and was asleep in an instant, armor and all.

* * *

><p>In her dream, Iona walked down the long corridor of Jorrvaskr, knowing that it should end soon and yet not finding any doors, nor any sign that she was moving at all. She began to run, sprinting full pelt down the stone, her bare feet slapping loudly as she went, alerting anything nearby of her presence. The torches that burnt around her seemed to be dimming, the corridor getting dimmer.<p>

"Run!" someone shouted. "Bandits, at least twelve of them!" She turned, expecting to see the source of the voice, but she was still alone in the ever darkening corridor. Her heart raced and she gasped for breath, desperate to find a way out, unable to find one.

Then at last there was a door. She scrabbled at the handle, sobbing as she pulled it down and stumbled, not into a room of the Companion's mead hall, but into a softly lit meadow. A crouched figure in dark leather knelt before her and she only just stopped in time to prevent herself running into him.

"Sovngarde awaits," he whispered, and she realised that he was holding someone in his arms; a woman, in bright white leather and a red cloak.

"Sovngarde is not for folks such as me," she said in a choked voice. "The void calls."

Iona could feel it, sense the cold as it raced towards both her and the unknown woman.

"But we shall be together again," he said, holding her hands. "I know it."

As the sun set, the darkness took over, washing away the trees, the grass, the sky… it left nothing but the kneeling man, who stood and turned to observe the hesitant woman behind him.

"Soon," he whispered, as the darkness took him.

Iona awoke gasping, once again covered by cold sweat and, she thought, tears. She lay still for a moment. She was wondering, once again, why on Earth Vilkas should appear in her dreams.


	3. Jyggalag

_**Thanks for the reviews thus far, all feedback is greatly appreciated :) xx**_

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><p><em>Jyggalag<em>_ is the Prince of Order, a powerful deadra of unknown capabilities._

When Iona ventured up into the main hall the following morning, it was to find it buzzing with loud chatter. Tired faces showed that many of the warriors had been up through the night, and Farkas, sitting in the corner downing healing potions, gave her some idea of what must have happened. He had stripped off his gauntlets, and his left arm was swollen and burnt, the bone visible in at least one place. Iona began to hurry towards him, reaching for her healing magic only to find it gone, a vast emptiness in its place.

"A dragon?" she asked as she reached him.

"Yeah, a strong one," he replied, grimacing. "Nearly had me. Would've done, if Skjorr hadn't distracted it. We got it down in the end though."

"For now, anyway," Iona sighed, a dreadful foreboding rising in her chest.

"For now," he agreed. "We'll talk to Lydia soon though; she'll get word to the Dragonborn before it wakes up again." Iona nodded, thinking hard. She couldn't go near the dragon when it was truly alive, it would finish her in seconds, but she had to find some way to get its soul, to find where the companion's had slain it. She sighed, wishing things were simpler. In the beginning, they had thought it was simply Alduin resurrecting the dragons, but that had been too simple. There had been too many dragons in too short a period for that to be the only explanation, and those that were killed without the presence of the Dragonborn never stayed dead for long. With their souls still present within their body, eventually they re-awoke, weeks, days and sometimes just hours later. Each town had its own defence against dragons, but she was the only Dragonborn.

"You'll have to go with Aela for today," Farkas said after he chugged down another potion, "Or maybe talk to Athis if you want some one-on-one training with your sword."

"Which one's Athis?" Iona asked, glancing around the room.

"Dark elf in the corner," Farkas grunted, reaching for a bandage.

"I'll get that," Iona said hurriedly, not wanting him to stretch himself. She quickly padded the leaves with some blue mountain flower petals and a very small amount of vampire dust to aid the healing and prevent disease before wrapping it with the rough bandages Farkas had been reaching for.

"Thanks," he said flexing his fingers slightly and wincing. "Don't think I'll be doing much fighting until that's all healed up though."

"It shouldn't take too long," Iona said, "Maybe two or three days for a dragon burn that severe." She had spoken without really thinking, but now Farkas was looking up at her curiously and she realised quite what she had said.

"How do you know so much?" he asked.

"I used to help out at the temple of Mara," she said quickly. "We got a lot of burn victims when the dragons first returned." Farkas nodded, accepting her story without further question.

"I'll go talk to Athis," she said, standing and moving across the room. Aela nodded at her as she passed, but everyone else acted as though she were not there. "Athis?" she asked, approaching the only Dunmer in the room. "Farkas said you could help train me."

"Did he now?" Athis said, straightening up. He was not burnt, but there was some ash, possibly from trees that had suffered during the fight, upon his armour. "I can, but it won't be cheap."

"I have coin, and plenty of it," she replied, not even batting a lash.

"Then if you're willing to pay in advance I'll train you all day for six thousand Septims."

"Done. I'll be back shortly." She was grateful to get out of the stuffy hall and pulled her helmet off as she walked through the streets of Whiterun. It was still early and the market was only just being set up. She let herself into Breezehome via the back door and hurried upstairs. Lydia took some shaking but finally (but not necessarily happily) descended into the underground manor to retrieve the required gold.

"Oh, and the companions brought down a dragon during the night," Iona added before she left. "Help me think of a way to deal with that one and I might kiss you."

"Promises, promises," Lydia shouted as Iona hurried back up to Jorrvaskr. Athis quite clearly hadn't expected her to return with the promised gold, but he had agreed to train her and so he did. After about ten minutes, it was clear just how much was wrong with Iona's technique. Her stance was wrong, her grip was wrong, her swings were wrong… Athis was, in fact, hard pushed to find anything that was right.

"It's not that the stance isn't secure," he explained. "It's just not suited to the sort of movement you'll need to make with a sword in hand. I've seen mages take this sort of position?" he looked up at her questioningly.

"Yeah, I was a mage," she said after a moment, deciding that a part truth couldn't hurt so long as he didn't know she was the Dragonborn, "But there was an attack and I… well I couldn't do it anymore."

"So you came here?" he asked, eyebrows rising.

"Well I did hear you were the best in Skyrim," she said, shrugging. A little flattery could go a long way, and Athis did appear to be somewhat mollified. By the time the sun was at its peak Iona had finally begun to get to grips (literally) with her sword. She could perform the basic movements and, while still not particularly strong, was fairly confident in her ability to keep hold of the weapon at the very least.

That did not, however, mean she was in any way ready to begin looking into what had happened to her, or even to doing a simple job for the Companions. She made no progress through the afternoon and frustration threatened to overwhelm her as she headed to Breezehome for the night, determined to spend some time in her own bed, in a room not full of people who kept making snide comments.

But still the dream came. A grand city lay before an army, and the general raised his sword and shouted, his words more than simple sounds but instead power, blasting the walls down before him, allowing his force entry into the walled bastion. They surged forward, shouting their battle cries and decimating the force that met them inside. Their general rode ahead of them, his sword singing as he slew any and all who dared to oppose him, this man in shining armour, a Nord at the head of an Imperial army. When all their foes had fallen or surrendered, the army raised their weapons to cheer for their general. Cries erupted from all around. "Stormcrown!" they shouted. "Stormcrown! Hail Talos of Atmora!"

The bright day faded as they cheered, giving way to a dark, dirty slum. A few wooden houses stood together about a statue of a woman, and men and women in black armour stood outside each one. A single woman bearing a torch reached up and kissed the cheek of the statue. _"My listener,"_ a voice hissed. No one but the woman by the statue reacted. _"The first soul has prayed to their mother. Travel to Leyawin and speak with the Countess, she will be expecting you. Go, with my blessing."_

"The Night Mother has spoken!" the woman shouted, and there were cheers as there had been for Talos of Atmora, except these were cheers for Sithis and for the Glory of the Void, the care of the Night Mother.

_You see now, my child, what it is you must escape, what it is you must atone for._ The visions faded, replaced only by darkness.

"Who's there?" Iona shouted. "Where are you?"

_I am watching you always. You have never been closer, have never been so far away from the dark. A time of challenge stands before you. Seventeen princes, eight divines. Each will test you, each will judge you. Pass them all and you are ready, at long last._

"Who are you?" Iona shouted again.

_The first challenge is passed, the trial has begun. Jyggalag is appeased. Wake now child, and face the trials yet to come._

Iona woke biting down on her tongue, containing her screams, ensuring she didn't Shout. After a moment, she slumped down, tasting blood. The dragons roared their displeasure at containment, their voices filling her ears with a song only she would ever hear. When they subsided, Iona swung her legs from the bed and headed to the bowl on the dresser, splashing her face with the lukewarm water and rinsing out her mouth, spitting the blood into the bowl. Now that the dragons were quiet she could almost hear the echo of the voice in her mind once more. It was a soft, female voice, and Iona couldn't decide what to make of it. She thought on what the voice had said – eight divines was somewhat clear, but why there were seventeen princes rather than sixteen Iona had no idea. She didn't even know where to start in finding out who 'Jyggalag' was.

She did, however, know someone who might know. She bit her lip, trying to decide how she could realistically get word to Sky Haven Temple. She could always send Lydia, or one of her other Housecarls, but that would probably raise the question as to why she hadn't gone herself. The blades were still a small force, and Iona didn't want to shake the confidence they had gained by telling them of her condition. She'd still only managed to garner three recruits for the Blades, and the restoration of Sky Haven Temple was slow going even with Devlin's help. She moved back over to the bed and sat back, still chewing on her bottom lip.

She needed to talk to Aranea, she knew. As far as visions from the Gods went there was no one with better qualifications in the entirety of Skyrim, possibly in the entirety of Tamriel. Aranea had been the first new member of the Blades recruited by Iona and she spent the vast majority of her time working for Esbern to aid in the recovery of the vast knowledge the Blades had once had at their disposal. Perhaps if she sent a message phrased as though there was a great urgency it could explain her own failure to be there herself, she wondered.

Finally, the answer came to her. The couriers of Skyrim were well known for being tenacious and, at times, downright suicidal. She could send one running to Sky Haven for less than two hundred Septims, job done. She slipped out of bed, donned her leather armour and grabbed a quill, parchment and ink from where they sat on top of a chest. She scribbled a quick request for Aranea's presence at Breezehome and moved into the dawn light. The Bannered Mare was a common enough place for couriers to stop, so she headed there first.

"Any couriers in the room?" she called as she entered the main hall of the inn. Two hands waved at her and she moved to a large, solidly built Nord sitting to the right of the fire. "Take this to Karthspire," she instructed him. The ruin and camp surrounding it will be clear of Forsworn. Head as far inside as you can and ask for Aranea. If she is not there, leave the note in Esbern's care."

"How much will you be paying for that?" he asked, taking the note and sliding it into the pouch he wore at his waist.

"150 Septims," she replied, handing over the money bag. He took the money, held it for a second to guess its weight, and nodded. "Should get there within three days," he said, turning back to his beef. Iona nodded and left, heading back to Breezehome to grab her own breakfast.

"Put your mask on," Lydia said as she came in, "You've got to go sort that dragon."

"But…"

"It fell just outside the city," Lydia assured her. "You can take its soul and be back in the walls before anything happens. I'll be there, and the vast majority of the companions want to see it as well."

"Why?" Iona spluttered.

"Well they've never seen you absorb a soul. I think Aela's exact words were, 'something worth bringing down a dragon for.'"

"Great," Iona mumbled, "An audience."

"I brought the golden one," Lydia said, indicating the mask sat on the table. Lydia had never been able to remember which had which names, but she knew generally what effects they each had. Certainly Konahrik's privilege wouldn't go amiss today. Iona ran upstairs and fished out a crumpled set of master destruction robes, changing from her armour before sliding the mask over her face.

The instant change in the manner of the people of Whiterun was truly astounding. People waved and nodded to her, greeted her with a mixture of awe, respect and fear. She hurried past, nodding to accept their words, and moved out of the gate. Lydia walked beside her and indicated where the dragon had fallen. The great red beast lay on its side, snout covered with dried blood, great gashes visible in its side. Iona moved to its head and rested a hand upon its nose, drawing a small silver dagger at the same time. At her touch, and the touch of the souls within her, a shiver of life ran down the creature's spine. In a practised motion, Iona drove the dagger through the dragon's eye, a quick way to end its life. This was impractical in a full fight, but quick and useful when the dragon had already been brought down.

She stepped back as the scales began to crackle and burn, turning to ash that blew away with the wind, revealing the skeleton beneath. She braced herself as she felt the great wind building up, rushing around her and embracing her. The souls within her roared in greeting and the new addition shouted. Iona kept her jaw tense, concentrating every effort on keeping the sounds contained. When the shouting settled, she let out a long low breath.

"Well that was something worth getting up to see." Iona turned to see Vilkas and the other companions approaching her. Farkas was looking at the bones of the dragon, Aela looked intrigued by the things the creature had left behind – various bits of armour and weapons from unfortunate guards and adventurers it had swallowed, even a few distinctly humanoid bones.

"I'm glad I provided some entertainment," Iona replied, turning so that Vilkas would know she was looking straight at him even with the mask covering her face.

"Of course I didn't mean it like that," Vilkas said hurriedly.

"Of course not," Iona agreed, almost sycophantically, turning to head back to Whiterun. To her dismay, Kodlak of all people moved to walk beside her as she returned.

"Have you ever considered joining us in Jorrvaskr?" he asked after a short silence.

"The thought never really crossed my mind," Iona replied, grinning beneath her mask.

"You should consider it," he replied. "There is a lack in recent years of those with the fire burning in their hearts."

"And you think I have this fire?" Iona replied, stopping and turning to look at his face.

"You might," he said, somehow managing to look her straight in the eyes, even though he couldn't see them properly beneath the mask. "It is hard to tell, when you hide yourself away so much."

"I only hide my face," she replied.

"No, I think you hide far more than just that," he said after a moment before turning and continuing up to Whiterun.

Iona's next few days were a predictable, bruised, bloodied and painful blur. Constant training with Athis didn't seem to be doing much more than earning her a new injury every hour, and coupled with the ever intensifying dreams, she was almost constantly dead on her feet. Her hands were covered in small cuts to add to the long healed burns that striped her fingers and palms, her calf muscles ached from hours spent attempting to perfect her new stance and her fingers seemed to revert into a claw shape whenever she put down her sword.

Six days after she absorbed the dragon's soul, she stumbled into Breezehome to find Lydia and Aranea sitting at the table. Aranea stood and was about to bow when Iona moved forward and embraced her. It had been a long time since she'd seen the Priestess of Azura.

"I came as quickly as I could," Aranea said once they had sat down and Lydia had brought down a spare chair from upstairs. "Your message seemed urgent."

"It was," Iona said, glancing at Lydia. She hadn't told the Housecarl about the dreams, but she was bound to find out eventually, and it was better she knew now if eventually turned out to be when Iona burnt the house down in her sleep. So she told them everything, from her dreams about the woman from the Dark Brotherhood, to her dream vision of Talos of Atmora and finally, of the soft spoken woman who had given her the cryptic message.

"Jyggalag is the very much lesser known of all the deadric princes," Aranea said after a moment. "He is the prince of order, if I am not much mistaken, and rose to a brief prominence after the oblivion crisis."

"So what have I done to appease him?" Iona asked, baffled.

"I don't know," Aranea leant back and closed her eyes, head tilted slightly as she thought. "Jyggalag is the prince of order, so it is possible that by starting these… these trials, you have set foot on a path to restore order, or else have begun the natural way in which these things should occur."

"So what are the trials supposed to be then?"

"I would imagine they are designed to appease the remaining princes and, judging by what was said, eight of the nine divines."

"Well that'll give us some idea of what to expect I suppose," Lydia said. "We could list the divines and deadric princes, what they're prince or divine of, and what to expect."

"It's a start at least," Iona agreed.


	4. Mehrunes Dagon

**If anyone wants to see the character, Talitha uploaded a picture on photobucket for me :) **

http:/s1130#photobucket#com/albums/m539/XxXTalithaXxX/?action=view¤t=ScreenShot17#jpg

**_Just replace all the # with .and off you go :)  
><em>**

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><p><em>Mehrunes Dagon is the Daedric Prince of Destruction, Change, Revolution, Energy, and Ambition.<em>

Once the list was made, Iona pinned it to the wall by the door with a small iron dagger. Aranea had departed, planning to talk with Esbern about the trials (without going into too much detail about recent events at Iona's request) and to read through the books they had collected to see if there were any records of these trials happening before.

"It could be that Tiber Septim underwent these same trials," Aranea had suggested, "And that is why you received a vision of him."

"Maybe that's why only eight divines are setting challenges?" Lydia had added. Iona mulled over the possibilities as she headed up to Jorrvaskr the following morning, having long since given up on trying to mentally prepare herself for the training ahead. When she entered the hall, however, she was not met by Athis waiting to begin training, but by Skjorr.

"I'll admit," he said with a straight face. "That I am against this. I think you're only liable to get either yourself or your shield brother killed, but Kodlak has requested it and Athis believes you are ready, so today is your trial."

"My trial?" Iona asked.

"Yes. A scholar has reported to us that a fragment of Wuuthrad is located nearby – Dustman's cairn. It's probably nonsense, however, it would be inadvisable to ignore the information. Farkas will be your shield brother for this task, report to him for further details." Skjorr turned and headed out the back. Iona stood for a moment, trying to decide whether this was a good or a bad thing.

Either way, she decided, it was going to happen. It was probably best to get it done while the sun was up, for draugr weren't particularly fond of bright lights. She found Farkas sat on the porch and he greeted her warmly. Iona decided she was glad he was to be her shield brother over the others.

_Flashes of a face, hard lines, dark paint and a faint shadow across the chin._ Iona shook her head in an attempt to clear it, shaking away the tendrils of the night's dream. She listened as Farkas spoke, nodding and responding as seemed appropriate. When her shield brother stood to leave, she stepped back and allowed him to take the lead.

Dustman's cairn was indeed very close, and it took them only an hour or so to reach it, meeting nothing more threatening than a few wolves along the way. Iona received only a couple of scratches, only one of which was even approaching deep, and Farkas commented on how far she had come. She tried not to show just how pleased she was by his words.

They reached the cairn and descended the worn steps to the door. There were signs that someone had been inside recently – spades and wheelbarrows of large stones gathered across from the door. They headed inside to a large, empty stone chamber, bare of furniture but for a few rotting bookcases and a single large stone table. As they headed forwards into a low, wide corridor they came across more spades and oil lamps, further signs that there was some life amongst the dead.

They moved quietly, something Iona was more practised at than Farkas, her slight frame almost melting into the shadows after many years with the guild. "Be careful around the burial stones," Farkas whispered. "I don't wanna have to haul you back to Jorrvaskr on my back."

"I'll watch out," Iona whispered back, supressing a grin. Her smile faded quickly, however, when she heard the distinctive, dragging shuffle of approaching draugr. "To the right," she whispered.

"Got it," Farkas replied, leaping forward sword at the ready. The draugr came into sight, it's own sword held in that death grip all draugr possessed, eyes burning with impossibly blue fire. It swung to meet Farkas' blade, but the companion was ready for him, driving his sword down with both hands. The draugr stumbled, part of it's skull caved in. Iona darted forward, running her sword across the back of it's knees. Instantly, trails of ice crawled over the creature's legs and she knocked them hard with Chillrend's hilt. With a sickening crunch, the right leg snapped in two. Farkas took one more swing and the draugr's head parted company with its shoulders.

As they moved on, it was clear that most of the draugr had been taken care of by whoever had come here before them and without any further trouble they made it to the next large chamber. Two thrones stood to one side, but of more interest was the solid iron gate, relatively corroded by time, that now stood in their way.

"I'll look for the trip switch," Iona sighed, glancing to either side of the portcullis for a chain or small handle. Finding none, she headed into the large alcove to the side of the door. She was gratified to find a large lever, which she promptly pulled. She smiled as she heard the gate slide open, but cried out in dismay when she turned to find herself trapped behind another portcullis that had sealed her in the alcove.

"Now look what you've done." Farkas rolled his eyes. "Wait a second, I'll see if I can find…" he stopped and looked around. Iona listened, but could hear nothing. "Here comes trouble," Farkas sighed, drawing his sword. Then Iona heard it. Running feet and shouted words.

"It's time to die dog!"

"We knew you'd be coming!" Men and women of many races were running into the room and had easily surrounded Farkas. They were silver armour and held weapons of the same metal. "Your mistake, I think, companion." Iona moved forward, gripping the portcullis as she tried to see more of what was happening.

"Which one is that?" a woman to the side asked.

"Does it matter?" Another shouted. "He wore the armour, he has to die!"

"Killing you will make for an excellent story," the woman said smugly.

"None of you will be alive to tell it!" Farkas declared, sheathing his weapon. Iona stepped back. Did Farkas have a death wish? Did he want to die? Why on Nirn had he put away his weapon?

The answer came to her as Farkas' arms began to lengthen, long black hairs sprouting on his arms, fingers becoming talons, nose becoming a snout. His armour dropped away, clanging to the ground as the wolf that had been Farkas roared.

The men and woman charged forwards but Iona could see none of it. Her vision had blurred over and she stumbled back, clutching her head as something close to, but not quite, a memory assaulted her.

It felt like it should be a memory, and it played out before her as one. _Two moons in the sky, amber eyes, a howling that never seemed to end. Cold and dark replaced by the warmth of fire and stone. "…find your way to my hunting grounds. Take great care, for only one of you will earn the glory of facing the hunter in battle while the bloodmoon lights the sky." Endless fighting, tooth, claw and sword. Wolves that spoke in low hissing voices, men who fought without remorse._

"_Prepare yourself, mortal, for you are now the hunted!"_ This last sentence seemed to ring in her head as she came back to herself, crouched on the floor behind the portcullis, her head in her hands, helmet on the ground and fingers clutching at her white hair. Slowly, she moved to her feet and saw the wolf standing amidst the broken bodies of the men and women. It moved away, kicking the pieces of Farkas' armour away with it.

A few minutes later, Farkas returned (thankfully clothed) as the portcullis that had trapped her was raised. "So now you know," he said at last. "The beastblood is gifted to members of the circle, giving us heightened senses, a keener sense of the world around us."

"You're animals," Iona protested.

"You sound like the old man," Farkas replied, shrugging. "There are different views in Jorrvaskr. Kodlak and Vilkas are learning to control their beastblood, while Aela and Skjorr embrace it."

"And you?"

"I use it when I have to," he said, shrugging. "I still don't know where I stand on the issue. It has saved my life a few times though."

"Like just now," Iona conceded.

"Exactly. There's more Silver Hand ahead, be ready to attack." Iona nodded and gripped her sword, following Farkas through the now open portcullis and further underground. They passed the remains of more than a few draugr, and a small number of Silver Hand who had died fighting, but didn't come across anyone else until they had progressed into the main crypt. Here they emerged into a full on battle, Silver Hand and draugr. Farkas charged in, his sword carving a great swathe in the ranks ahead of him as he caught both man and undead unawares. Iona kept more to the shadows, taking out those who noticed her, leaping to dispatch anyone who threatened Farkas from behind. She had just dispatched a weaker draugr when she turned to find herself with three members of the silver hand, each looking straight at her.

She barely raised her shield in time to block the first attack and stumbled back before regaining her footing and moving into the stance Athis had taught her. They launched themselves at her relentlessly, attacking her from both directions. She could see Farkas attempting to get to her, trying to fight past the draugr but there were too many. Her sword was knocked from her hand and the woman who had knocked it from her grip swiped at her, not with a sword but with a gauntleted hand. Iona cried out in pain as something sharp scratched down her face and her eyes flashed red.

"TIID KLO UL!" she Shouted. The world around her slowed, taking on a decidedly blue tint, blood running down her face she slid to one side and grabbed her sword, running behind the three silver hand and killing them each with a swift strike across the neck. As she turned back to Farkas, time seemed to spring back on itself, becoming a more normal speed once again. She and the companion dispatched the two remaining draugr and stood, panting, for a moment.

"Let me see that," Farkas said, indicating her wound.

"It'll be fine," she waved him off. "Nothing a few potions won't fix." She reached into the pouch at her belt, unscrewing the cap of a small red bottle, downing half the contents and splashing the rest on her face. She winced, the potion stinging as it hit the scratches.

"It'll scar mind," Farkas warned. "Those are enchanted weapons."

"What are they?" Iona bent down, pulling one of the clawed gauntlets from one of the warriors.

"The silver hand are werewolf hunters," Farkas explained. "They wear the talons to fight us when we bear our own." He hesitated a moment, and then asked the question Iona had known he would. "You use the Voice?" She knew that at the very least some honesty was required, and nodded. "I always thought it was only Nords who could use the Shouts?" His voice was questioning and Iona could already see the question forming in his mind – the realisation in his eyes. "You are the…" he didn't finish the sentence, a mixture of awe and wonder in his eyes. Iona nodded unhappily, looking down at her feet. "Ha! Wait 'till Vilkas knows that," he hooted. "Kodlak told him there was more to you but would he listen?"

"You can't tell," Iona said instantly. "No one can know."

""Not even in the companions?" he asked, confused. "Believe me, you can't keep secrets in Jorrvaskr."

"Maybe one day," she conceded, "But not now. What I'm doing… what's happened to me… I'm trying not to let it get out." When Farkas continued to look confused, Iona elaborated. "I'm surprised Athis hasn't mentioned it to more people," she said when she had finished.

"So you think whoever attacked you at the moot is behind this?" Farkas asked. Iona nodded. "Then when you need help hunting them down, you can call on me shield sister."

"Thank you," Iona said, meaning it.

"You fought for Skyrim when we needed a hero," he said, shaking his head. "It would be my honour."

"I'm not a hero," Iona sighed. "Just really, really unlucky." Farkas laughed and clapped her on the back.

"Aren't we all?" he asked. "Let's get this damn fragment and be out of here." Iona nodded and together they progressed into the final chamber. Black stone sarcophagi lined the walls, but Iona's eyes were instantly drawn to the stone wall at the far end of the room. She could feel the pull of the word, drawing her inexorably towards it, past everything else. Her vision began to narrow and to her it seemed the word was glowing. Even as she looked at, understanding came to her, and with it came life, bright fire blazing in a brilliant inferno; sun.

As her vision returned, she realised she had moved across the room. Blinking as her eyes returned to normal, she spied a fragment of a stone battle-axe upon the table by the wall. She took the fragment and was surprised by just how heavy it was. "This what we're after?" she asked Farkas, holding it at shoulder level.

"That's a fragment alright," he nodded. "Let's get out of here before…" he stopped as, with a distinctive crack, the front of one of the sarcophagi began to move. A second later it had fallen to the ground and a draugr stepped from it, axe drawn and ready, eyes blazing. Even as Farkas moved to attack, another appeared, followed by another. Iona moved back against the wall as it became clear that every sarcophagus in the room was going to spew out another undead defender for them to deal with.

She felt the fire building in her chest, one of the dragons that lived within her identifying with the new word. The shout came easily, filling her with warmth and a familiar calm. "YOL TOOR SHUL!" The fire was noticeably stronger than it ever had been, exploding at the oncoming wave of draugr. A couple fell, but the rest were soon on her. She fought, relying more upon speed than her skill with the sword, dodging and diving as the draugr came close to her. She heard Farkas shout something and spared a precious glance his way. Her heart almost stopped.

The companion was backed into a corner by a horde of draugr larger even than the one she fought herself. Even his superior strength looked to be inadrquate to face such a challenge. Her breathing came fast and sharp, her eyes narrowing as the position of her hand upon her sword altered very slightly. She rolled forward, filled with new purpose, new reason. One thought and only one thought filled her mind: _destroy_.

_Shaking earth, raging fire. An army of the dead, skeletal bonelords, shuffling zombies, ghosts that screeched unearthly choruses as they swayed towards a lone figure armed with nothing more than a single enchanted sword. Hulking bonewalkers cried in agony as they dragged bleeding limbs behind them and a single wormlord lead the charge, his empty sockets flashing with malice and a desire, a ferocious need for blood. His sword struck again and again, but the lone warrior did not stop, did not pause. He cut through the army, never giving in to the exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him, was draped across his shoulders as much as the red fog of the blight was blanketed across the land._

Farkas could only watch as the slight elf danced through the draugr. Truly there was no other word for it, but to Farkas it seemed unnatural. Her eyes had changed, shifting from the warm amber they usually held to a dark black that almost seemed to seep into the pale skin of her face. No emotion travelled across her features as she moved, slicing with what appeared to be practised ease. The draugr had turned their attention from him, all their efforts now focused on the carnage the elf was creating.

One by one they fell to her sword, even once the blade had dimmed, the soul powering its enchantment worn out. When finally they were the only two left, Farkas sighed in relief and replaced his own sword upon his back.

_The wormlord screeched and howled in rage, his army defeated, his masters wrath palpable even from here. He roared as he charged the wounded warrior, who raised his sword for one last strike…_

Farkas gasped at the power of the blow, falling back as the weapon sank deeper and deeper into his stomach. As he watched, Iona's eyes began to clear, her expression morphing into one of confusion and then one of deep horror. "Farkas!" she shouted. "Farkas!" his lids were drooping, his hearing fuzzy, but still he heard the voice as it echoed through the chamber.

"The second trial is complete. Mehrunes Dagon is appeased."


	5. Arkay

**A/N: Establish the rules early one :) Rule 1: Anyone can die *evil laugh***

**Also, it's worth noting that my version of Skyrim is quite heavily modded. I didn't add the mods, so I've only just found out what they are, and some are included in this story, so credit where it's due.**

**The mods used so far are called "Dohvakiin hideout" and "Deadly dragons", both of which can be found on Skyrim Nexus. Deadly dragons was only added recently, and I'd seriously suggest trying it. It can take a loooong time to kill the tougher beasts once it's enabled :) **

**Reviews appreciated, long author's note over and out xx  
><strong>

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><p><em>Arkay is the g<em>_od of the cycle of birth and death, the deity __of burials and funeral rite. He is sometimes associated with the coming and going of seasons._

Iona scrabbled in her pouch, reaching for a healing potion. The first one she picked was too small and she dropped it to the ground. It rolled away as she drew out her most powerful potion. Her hands were already covered in blood and the colour was fast leeching from Farkas' skin. She unstoppered the bottle with shaking hands and placed a hand over Farkas' nose, forcing his mouth open so she could tip some of the precious potion down his throat. Once it was in his mouth she held his mouth shut, forcing him to swallow.

She wiped a hand across her forehead, realising too late that she was smearing blood through her hair and on her face. A sob escaped her lips as she moved back, placing the bottle down far enough away that she was sure she wouldn't knock it over. She took a deep breath to steady herself and gripped Chillrend's hilt with both hands. She resisted the urge to close her eyes and pulled, trying to keep the blade as steady as possible. The moment it was clear of Farkas' body she threw it to one side and reached for the potion again, pouring what was left over the wound and ten reaching for the small bottle she had discarded earlier, tipping that on for good measure.

Then she sat back, knowing there was nothing more she could do. She kept her eyes fixed on the wound, barely blinking. The potions had stopped the bleeding and thin white film was now beginning to stretch across the deep wound. A single glance at Chillrend told her that the enchantment had been worn down as the draugr were killed, meaning that the wound might not even scar once the potions had done their work. Tentatively she touched the marks on her own face, coated with the same film growing across Farkas. There were three scratches, two on her cheek and one across her mouth. This, she thought to herself, was another point in the favour of wearing masks; no facial scars.

At some point she must have fallen asleep, because some time later she snapped awake at the sound of movement. Farkas was sitting up, the film that had grown across his wound now a solid sheet that cracked as he moved. There was a thin pink line, but that would have faded away by the end of the day. Iona breathed a sigh of relief and then looked uncertainly up at Farkas' face, feeling the dried potion on her own face crack with the movement of the small muscles beneath the skin.

"What was that then?" Farkas asked as he inspected the mark that was the only indication of what could have been a mortal wound.

"I… I don't know," Iona said honestly. "I've been having dreams… visions, for a while now on and off, but they've been consistent every night since I lost my magic. Today was the first time I had them while I was awake though, first when you became a wolf and then just now." She hesitated before asking a question that had just come to her. "Do you know of the Bloodmoon?" she asked.

"No, but if it's wolf related, try Skjorr or Aela. Talk to Vilkas if it's a history thing."

"I will," Iona nodded. "What about a place with red fog?"

"That's definitely Vilkas' territory," Farkas said. "Let's get this fragment back to Jorrvaskr so that you can ask him."

"What about…"

"This?" Farkas glanced down at his wound. "Damn draugr." He shrugged and grinned before turning to go back the way they had come.

"Wait a second," Iona shouted as she retrieved her sword. Farkas turned questioningly and she pointed to the stairs off the side of the dais with the word wall. "There's always a back door."

There was indeed a shortcut to the open air of the chilly Skyrim evening and they climbed from the cairn to the sight of Whiterun in the distance, the night fires beginning to flicker as the sun set. As they walked back to the city, Iona found her mind preoccupied by thoughts of the visions she had received while they were within the tomb. They had felt almost similar, and she was quite sure they had been visions of the same man on two different occasions. She would see what she could find out about this Bloodmoon, and about the place with red fog. When they entered the city, businesses were packing up for the day, stalls closing and shops locking up. They moved up past the gildregreen and to Jorrvaskr.

Iona was a little surprised to see Vilkas leaning against the wall waiting for them, resplendent in his full armour (she took note of the woof emblem emblazoned across the chest). "So you both made it back alive," he said. "Although not unhurt by the looks of things; what happened to your face?" he was addressing Iona, but his eyes were darting between her and his brother.

"Silver hand," Farkas said. "She knows."

"Do you now," Vilkas scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Well, that's a problem for another time. They're waiting round the back, come on."

"Who's waiting?" Iona asked, nonplussed.

"Just come on," Farkas said, shoving her forward a little. She scowled at him, but followed Vilkas around the back of the mead hall. To her surprise, "they" appeared to be Kodlak, Aela and Skjorr, standing in a half circle. Vilkas grabbed her arm and positioned her facing them.

Iona jumped at his touch. Even through the leather, or so it seemed to her, his hand seemed unnaturally warm and a slight shock had passed from the tips of his fingers to her skin. He and Farkas moved to stand by Kodlak, who was the first to speak.

"Brothers and sisters of the circle," he intoned, "This woman has endured, has challenged, and has shown her valour. Who will speak for her?"

"I stand witness to the courage of the soul before us," Farkas said, smiling as he looked at Iona.

"Would you raise your shield in her defence?" Kodlak asked.

"I would stand at her back, that the world might never overtake us."

"And would you raise your sword in her honour?"

"It stands ready to meet the blood of her foes."

"And would you raise a mug in her name?"

"I would lead the song of triumph as our mead hall revelled in her stories."

"Then the judgement of this circle is complete," Kodlak went on, smiling briefly at Iona. "Her heart beats with fury and with courage that have united the Companion's since the days of the distant green summers. Let it beat with ours, that the mountains may echo and our enemies may tremble at the call.

"It shall be so," the circle said together. Iona risked a glance around at their faces. Farkas was smiling at her, and Aela didn't look to be too surprised. Vilkas simply looked apprehensive and Skjorr… Iona didn't know what to make of the expression on Skjorr's face. It looked thoughtful, his eyes examining her as though evaluating every part of her body. The ceremony appeared to be complete, for the circle began to move back into the mead hall, where it was clear some form of celebration had been prepared. For the short moment the doors were open, Iona could see the fire blazing, hear slurred singing and smell the distinct odour of fresh roasted meat.

"Well girl," Kodlak said as he reached her, "You're one of us now. I trust you won't disappoint."

"I hope not," Iona said, allowing herself to smile.

"Get inside and enjoy the festivities," he said, smiling. "Make sure Farkas raises the mug he promised."

"I will," Iona said, grinning as she turned towards the mead hall. She pushed open the door and was met by a wave of heat. She undid the buckles on her armour, stripping into the plain shirt and pants she wore underneath, as many of the others had already. Someone passed her a mug of mead and Farkas was as good as his word, raising the first toast in her name. Iona took a tentative sip, Lydia's words from a few weeks before ringing in her ears.

She sat and laughed with the others. Some were a little hesitant around her still, not quite trusting a newcomer so soon, but she was glad to see that Vilkas had relaxed around her. In fact, after a couple of mugs of mead, she spent quite a while in deep conversation with him about the benefits of mudcrabs as a decorative addition to the mead hall.

"Sheild brothers and sisters!" Farkas shouted, and she broke off mid-sentence, hiccupping a little (she wasn't drunk, she told herself, merely tipsy). "Let's raise another mug to a hero we should never forget. To the Dragonborn." Iona froze, almost dropping her mug as Farkas raised his. She recovered in time to join the toast, although her hand trembled as she did.

"A song!" Torvar called in a slurred voice. "A song for the Dragonborn!"

"The Dragonborn Comes!" Njada shouted in agreement. Iona felt her face begin to burn, knew she had to get out of the hall, had to get into the fresh air. _"A song!" someone shouted, their voice joyful as they shouted, their glass raised up high in his direction. "A song for the hero of Vvardenfell!"_ Even as they started to sing, she stumbled to her feet and out of the hall. The cold air smacked into her and her head began to spin. _He turned away from the voices, shuffled to the bar, slamming a coin down and grabbing the drink offered to him. He drained it in seconds and slammed down another coin, and then another._ Leaning heavily against the wall of the hall, Iona emptied the contents of her stomach onto the grass.

* * *

><p>"<em>Are you sure you're ready?" he asked, his hand on her arm, eyes fixed on hers.<em>

"_I've been ready for years," she whispered, taking care that the guards nearby did not hear her voice. "The Night Mother has spoken to me, has directed me in the will of Sithis. This is my purpose."_

"_I'm sure there's more to it than that," he replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips._

"_But there is no greater calling than the bidding of the void, the will of the Dread Father! You should understand, my hand."_

"_First speaker of the Black Hand," he said, as though rolling the words around his tongue. "It does have a ring to it."_

"_The hand must be filled and a keeper chosen. The Night Mother has decreed it, so it shall be."_

* * *

><p>She woke the following morning with a splitting headache, the light streaming in through Breezehome's small window too much for her. She raised the furs over her head in an attempt to shut it out, but it didn't help much. She groaned and rolled over, burying her face in the pillow. Sounds from downstairs told her that Lydia was awake and roaming the house (with rather more noise than was perhaps necessary), and the faint sounds from outside told her that the market was already in full swing. She lay still for a while, and eventually dozed off.<p>

It was about midday before she woke in a state suitable to moving out of bed, and she stumbled down to find Lydia coming in through the door. "Up at last?" she asked with raised brows. "You need to go see Balgruuf at some point, he's worried about you."

"I'll be fine," Iona rasped, reaching for the jug of water on the side and pouring three mugs, downing them one after the other.

"Obviously."

"I got inducted into the Companions last night," she said, opening a cupboard to see what they had in.

"Well that can't be a bad thing," Lydia said, smiling as she set down a loaf of bread and a bottle of milk on the table – she usually stopped at the market on her way down from Dragonsreach.

"Get any apples?" Iona asked, giving up on the cupboards.

"Here," Lydia replied, chucking over a large red apple that Iona bit into before falling back into a chair at the table.  
>"Can you let me downstairs for a bit?" she asked through a mouthful of fruit. "I want to get into the armoury.<p>

"What now?"

"Yep." Lydia sighed and moved to unlock the trapdoor.

"All yours," she said, even as Iona moved over and descended the stairs. About ten minutes later, she came back up with a large brown backpack.

"What's in there?" Lydia asked curiously.

"New set of armour for Farkas, it's my fault his last set was damaged, and you always complain that it's never the same once mended."

"Well it's not," Lydia agreed. "What type is it?"

"Ebony. I was going to go for deadric, but that freaks some people out a little."

"Damn right it does." Lydia had never liked the deadric armour, and had been quite glad when Iona moved it out of Hjerim, meaning she didn't have to see it every time they were in Windhelm. The black armour and mysterious lights that played across it had always freaked her out a little.

"Besides, I think the deadric boots I have would be too small for Farkas and I only have one spare pair."

"How many sets of ebony do you have? If we include the set I wear?"

"Six. This one, yours, Argis' and three more downstairs."

"You'll have to show me your full collection at some point," Lydia laughed as Iona headed upstairs, re-emerging in her usual leather before grabbing the bag and heading up to Jorrvaskr. The hall was definitely quieter than usual, and when she entered, she found a number of Companions sitting around the tables, quietly nursing hangovers. Idly, she wondered what time the previous night's celebrations had actually ended.

Farkas was nowhere to be seen, so she headed downstairs and knocked on the door to his room. There was a grunt from inside, and she took it as permission to enter.

"Oh, Iona," he said, almost surprised. "I, umm, I'm sorry about last night. I didn't mean to upset you."

"It's fine," she said flatly, "I overreacted anyway. Here, this is for you." She dropped the bag onto his bed, "I ruined your last set, and I've got plenty spare. You still might want to take it up to the skyforge – the helmet's a little dented, but it's nothing Eorlund can't fix."

She was turning away as Farkas undid the straps of the bag, but she still heard his gasp of surprise as he realised quite what was inside. "This is ebony armour," he said after a moment. "I can't take this."

"Yeah you can," she said. "I damaged the iron set, so I'm replacing it. Don't worry, I won't miss it." She hurried from the room, shutting the door behind her and almost ran head first into Vilkas.

"What was that about?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"It's nothing," Iona said hurriedly. "Do you know where Athis is?"

"Sure, he's outback trying not to throw up. I think you may have to skip out on training today." She was about to turn away when something occurred to her.

"Farkas said I should talk to you – I need to do some research."

"It's not often anyone but Kodlak comes to me for that," he laughed, "Any particular topic?"

"The Bloodmoon."

"Hircine's ritual on Solstheim? Why would you be interested in that?"

"Long story," she waved the point aside. "What do you know of it?"

"I have a book on it somewhere I think," he said, turning to his room. "Let's see if I can find it. He strode into the small chamber, littered with books, pens and paper and began to root through a large stack of books in the far corner. "No, no sign of it," he said after a while. "Sorry it's probably here somewhere."

"What do you know about it anyway?"

"Well it was a trial run on Solstheim by Hircine. He would pick the four… or was it five? … strongest warriors the isle had to offer and pit them against each other in a great hunt, the victor of which would be granted the opportunity to face him in battle." That made sense, she thought. She thought maybe the vision she had received had been from the view of the hunt victor.

"And Hircine," she said carefully. "He has something to do with Werewolves?"

"Hircine is the Lord of the Hunt, yes," Vilkas sighed. Their faces weren't quite identical, Iona realised as she looked at Vilkas. The nord before her was bigger, more used to wielding large weapons. His face was scarred from battle, his nose a little off centre, quite probably broken at some point in the past.

"And one more question."

"More about Hircine?" The man in her dreams was younger too, his face always clean shaven and free of scars. He wielded a dagger, not a sword, and his strength was in stealth.

"No, about a place where fog is red."

"Red fog? Maybe you mean the sandstorm around red mountain?" But still, she thought they could easily be the same man. The same man having lived two very different lives, walked two separate paths that lead to the man from the dream, and the warrior before her now.

"Vvardenfell and Solstheim aren't too far apart are they?" she asked thoughtfully.  
>"A day or two by boat if the weather's good, right?"<p>

"Something like that, but Vvardenfell is all but gone these days, ever since the hall of Justice crashed into Vivec."

"And when was the last recorded occurrence of the Bloodmoon?"

"I don't know, actually," Vilkas said, frowning. "A long time ago."

"Before the eruption of Red Mountain?"

"I think so."

"Thanks," Iona said, smiling as she turned to leave, new thoughts swirling in her mind. Honestly, she had no idea what any of this meant, but having even this small amount of knowledge felt like a step in the right direction.

* * *

><p>Iona did not dream that night., but was woken by a load, heart stopping roar. She leapt from the bed, dashing to the window. Sure enough, perched on a house opposite was a great black wyrm. Her heart started beating again only to sink into her feet. She had only ever defeated a single wyrm, and that had been with the blades at her side – even then Aranea had been badly burnt and Argis had been bed ridden by his injuries for some time. Dragon wounds were not as easily healed as those from a sword.<p>

"Lydia," she shouted, running down the stairs. "The key, quickly!"

"What?" Lydia dropped her helmet, which she had been about to put on her head before moving outside. "You can't go out!"

"I can, and I will," Iona said stubbornly. "The companions will be fighting and I'm one of them now, I can't just leave them to it. Even if most of what I do is just shouting and staying out of the way, I have to help!"

"Fine, here." Lydia threw the key over and Iona scrabbled at the lock, hurrying down into the underground mansion. First she headed to the dragon priest masks, grabbing Konahrik. Moving to the armoury, she donned a set of elven armour and grabbed Dragonbane, a weapon she had never had much cause to use until now. She had found it in the ruins of Sky Haven Temple, and Delphine had insisted she take it, saying she never knew when it might come in useful.

Iona had never been more grateful for the woman's stubbornness. She hurried back up into the house and then out into Whiterun. Her appearance garnered a few gasps from people hiding in doorways, and cheers from the companions, already on the street, their eyes on the sky. Iona did not look at them, but she was aware of where everyone was. Farkas stood a short distance away, looking at her not the sky, and Vilkas was beside her. The dream from the night before shone brightly in her mind, Vilkas' shadowed face smiling as he had talked of the Dark Brotherhood.

As the wyrm roared, Iona concentrated on the sky, feeling the Thu'um building inside her as she raised her head. The dragon was circling just out of reach, but it would come down to them soon enough.

Arrows were flying towards it, from the guards and from Aela, who drew and released her arrows with incredible speed. This was what was causing the dragon to roar with such displeasure, but still it did not descend.

_Fine,_ Iona thought. If it won't come to me, I'll send something to it. She took a deep breath and let out her Thu'um. "ODAHVIING!" It seemed for a moment as though nothing had happened, and a few of the companions spared her curious glances as she waited, hands gripping her sword tightly. A minute passed, then two. She could feel the Thu'um rebuilding in her chest, and wondered if the dragon would come.

Then the wyrm's roar was dwarfed by another, greater war as a red dragon swooped towards it. They met in the air, talons and teeth tearing at each other. While one was aiming to kill, the other worked only to incapacitate, to harm the dragon in such a way that it would be forced to descend.

And it happened. With a great screech of pain a hole was torn in the wing of the black dragon, which fell just far enough down as Iona Shouted, "JOOR ZAH FRUUL!" AS Odahviing flew away, the wyrm was hit by a wave of blue energy that condensed around its body. It screamed, an unsettlingly human sound, and fell to the ground, skidding through the market square before coming to a halt, pinned down by the weight of its own mortality.

Skjorr lead the charge, steel flashing as he headed for a wing, aiming to prevent the dragon from taking off again now that it was down. Iona would have told him not to bother had she not been worried he would know her voice. She herself hung back, not wanting to get near enough to get killed, but needing to aid in the battle. Finally, she followed Lydia and moved around the back of the dragon's head as it was distracted by Torvar and Vilkas. The scales were tough, but the magic in Iona's blade visibly discharged down the steel and across the dragon's hide.

With the beast pinned down and surrounded, it looked as though it should be an easy fight, as though there was nothing simpler in the world, but it was not meant to be. It reared it's ugly head and Iona screamed. "Move! For Talos sake move!" at those stood by it's head, but it was too late.

"YOL TOOR SHUL!" the creature Shouted, creating a jet of flame that shot forward. Farkas leapt to one side, but Torvar was caught by the edge of the flame. He shouted in pain, dropping his weapon and cupping his hand to his chest, moving back away from the enraged dragon.

Farkas let out a great cry, his sword raised high as the sun reflected off the ebony of his armour. The dragon turned to him with deep, angry eyes and snapped forward, its powerful jaws snapping down upon the Companion.

Vilkas shouted something, but Farkas was beyond hearing it. The dragon threw him to one side and he hit Belathor's store, sliding unmoving to the ground. Iona screamed, a mixture of pain and rage, her swings coming more frequently but with less attack, less precision.

"KRII LUN AUS!" her voice was aimed at the dragon, marking it, letting it know that it would die by her hand. The thing turned to her and snapped, knocking her to one side, forcing the wind form her chest.

She felt warmth spread instantly through her body as she fell and the mask over her face grew warm. She didn't know what that dragon had done, but the mask across her face had just saved her from near certain death, healing all the damage. Now, flames rippled across her body, a fiery cloak that crackled and snapped at the dragon. She ran at it again, the fire scorching the lighter scales hidden among the black.

She didn't know who killed the dragon, only that it did die. She lowered her weapon, dripping with deep red blood, and watched as the life left the wyrm's eyes, as the scales began to burn, ash drifting away on the breeze. She turned away as the soul found her, not caring about the eyes on her back, wanting to rush with the others to Farkas' side, but knowing there was nothing she could do.

"The third trial is complete, Arkay is appeased." This time, the voice whispered in her ear, a soft sound meant for her and her alone. She did not react, did not know how to react, but instead headed to Breezehome, to the open trapdoor, and to the numbness that only alcohol could provide.


	6. Vaermina

_Vaermina__ is the Prince whose sphere is the realm of dreams and nightmares, and from whose realm issues forth evil omens._

"How did you get down?" Iona asked, popping the cork from her third bottle.

"I had a second key made while I had hold of it," Lydia replied, sighing. "Are you going to do this again?"

"Sure why not. It's not as if I'm good for anything anyway."

"Don't be ridiculoud," Lydia scolded her. "You're a hero – dovahkiin, archmage, guildmaster…"

"I don't deserve any of those things. I can't save people from dragons, I can't cast any spells and I can't be sneaky for shit without magic."

"What happened to Farkas wasn't your fault," Lydia said, in her best soothing voice. "You can't save everyone every time. And besides, I'm pretty sure no one in the guild cares how you do the thieving, so long as you bring in plenty of gold." She had moved round to sit across from Iona at the long table, setting her helmet, gauntlets and sword down between them. Iona's mask and Dragonbane lay in the corner where she had thrown them upon entering the room.

Iona didn't speak to reply, but took another swig of mead. "Aranea should come back soon," Lydia pressed on. "She might have some information about what to expect from these trials…"

"I've already passed two," Iona said coldly.

"You… when?"

"Yesterday at Dustman's cairn and again today when Farkas… when we fought the dragon."

"Do you know who?"

"Mehrunes Dagon and Arkay."

"So you're saying Arkay's trial was for Farkas to die?"

"I can't think what else it could be."

"Perhaps it's what you're doing now," Lydia said pointedly, glaring at the now empty bottle in Iona's hand. "He's not just the Divine of life and death, but of what comes after as well."

"I dunno. Maybe."

"What was Mehrunes Dagon then? I'd have thought that would have been a destructive one."

"It was. I stabbed Farkas. Healed him too, mind. Not that it did much good in the end."

"You… you stabbed Farkas? Please tell me there's an explanation for that."

"I've started having visions when I'm awake," Iona said, folding her arms on the table and laying her head down on them. "They're not the same – this time I see a man, in Vvardenfell usually, but once in Solstheim. He's bitter, and drinks a lot, tends to be rude to people who speak to him in the street. But then he gets hold of a sword, and nothing in the world will get in his way. When I was in the cairn, we were surrounded by draugr, surrounded, and I had a vision. When I was myself again all the draugr were dead and Farkas was at the wrong end of Chillrend."

Lydia was silent for a moment, and Iona knew without looking up that she would be biting her nails. "I'll see if I can get a message to Aranea," she said at last, "Tell her what's changed." Her chair scraped against the floor as she stood. "They're preparing the Skyforge now. Farkas will be burnt at sundown. He'd want you to be there, I'm sure." The door clicked shut as Lydia left.

* * *

><p>Iona trudged up the hill to the forge, arms wrapped tight about her chest, fingernails digging in to the leather of her armour. She didn't look up until she reached the top, where the other Companions were already waiting. Vilkas stood by the pyre, a torch in one hand, the other resting against the stacked wood. His eyes were closed and his head was bowed as he tried to say goodbye to the one part of his life that had always been there and now just… wasn't.<p>

Iona couldn't hear the words spoken, as one by one the harbinger and members of the circle spoke for Farkas. Instead her eyes were fixed upon the flame of Vilkas' torch, almost hypnotised by it. Her eyes did not leave it for an instant as it was lowered to the pyre, catching the dry wood.

What the forge had already begun, this now completed. The flames licked greedily across the wood, hiding Farkas from sight. Finally, when he was completely hidden, Iona lowered her head. She was aware of the others trudging down the hill to the hall, but didn't realise she wasn't alone until she looked up. Vilkas still stood by the forge, dangerously close to the fire.

She tried to move away quietly, but it was clear Vilkas knew she was there. "He trusted you," he said and she stopped, turning to face him. "He trusted to easy, I always said, but that wasn't true. He always knew exactly who was worth trusting."

"He was a good man," Iona said. "I wish I'd gotten to know him a little longer." He grunted in agreement, finally turning away from the fire. His shoulders were slumped and his armour seemed to dwarf him a little, as though his brother's death had made him fold in on himself a little.

"I fell as though I should be fighting, avenging… but the dragon's already dead, soul absorbed."

"So he's already been avenged. His soul can be at peace."

"No," Vilkas shook his head and Iona realised that his eyes were shining with tears in the light of the pyre. "No. He was of the blood when he died. He will spend his eternity in the hunting grounds with Hircine. I'm not sure that's what he would want. He was a true nord. If anyone deserved a place in Sovngarde, it was him." Iona thought back to the brief moments she had spent in Shor's hall, and knew that Vilkas was right. Farkas' place was there, with the heroes of old.

"We'll find a way," Iona said firmly. "We'll find some way to get him out of there."

"I wouldn't think it's that easy," he laughed bitterly.

"I don't see why not. They say Alduin had a portal to Sovngarde, there must be ways into the hunting grounds as well."

"You mean this, don't you?" he asked, looking her in the eyes, taking a couple of steps closer to her. "I don't understand you. I've watched your training these past weeks, under Kodlak's direction. You act like a seasoned warrior, yet you've clearly never used a blade. You talk like someone who's fought battle after battle, someone who's seen all this world has to offer."

"Not all. Just a lot." Her hands clenched and unclenched and she blinked rapidly, a familiar darkness encroaching upon her mind. "You must be my keeper. There is no one I would trust more with this duty." Her voice was low, his hands clasped in hers. "There must always be a listener, and it will be up to you to find them when I am gone."

"We can only hope that will be some time away yet."

"Darkness rises when silence dies," she whispered, leaning in close, her lips tickling his ear. "This is what they will tell you, this is how they will prove that they are the listener. These are the words the night mother will deliver as a signal, the words that will let it be known that the brotherhood will continue, must continue, should always continue." She drew back and looked him in the eye, before leaning in a slight amount and kissing him. He responded, pulling her towards him, wrapping his arms around her, scrabbling at the ties to the white leather of her armour, tearing away her red cloak.

"Iona?" she blinked, and realised that she had collapsed. Vilkas was kneeling beside her, and she thought maybe he had caught her before she hit the ground.

"I'm alright," she said, allowing him to help her to her feet. Again, she felt that strange eat as his hand met hers. "I just need some sleep, I don't get much at the moment."

"Come on, let's get you down to the hall."

"I'll be fine if you want to stay," she insisted.

"You think Farkas would have forgiven me for moping instead of making sure you got to bed safely?" She laughed and then stopped herself, glancing at Vilkas to see his reaction. He was smiling a little. Everyone had moved inside the hall, meaning that outside it was quiet and still. They stopped by the door for a moment and Iona glanced up at Vilkas, realising just how close together they were stood. He was looking down at her too and without conscious thought, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, she leant up and kissed him.

It was like someone had lit a fire inside her. She didn't care, suddenly, that she barely knew this man, that her life was a mess, or that nothing seemed to make sense. There was, for a moment, nothing but the two of them. When they broke apart, she saw uncertainty and something else, something more primal, raging in Vilkas' eyes. Then his lips crushed against hers and she closed her eyes, responding with equal eagerness.

They moved through the hall quickly, ignoring the glances of the others, some whispered comments. By the time they reached Vilkas' room, it didn't matter why this was happening, only that it was. They didn't stop to ponder the consequences, their only motive to forget, to live for the moment in a world that seemed to be desperate to go on without them.

And, even if it did not last the night, they managed.

* * *

><p><em>Everything was fire and black rock. All around her were deadra of many shapes and sizes, although they had not yet seen the woman who had walked through the fiery gate, heavily armoured and with greatsword in hand. She charged the nearest – a clanfear that screeched as it died, attracting the attention of many others. <em>

_She fought until they were dead, breathing heavily and sweating profusely in the heat of the red air. Red and black gates stretched high before her, and she moved slowly on, her eyes darting from side to side as she turned her head (vision limited by her steel plate helmet). _

_In time she came to a great tower and headed inside. She fought her way through dremora and yet more deadra until she reached the top, a pulsating chamber of living flesh that was breathing and beating in time with some ghastly heart hidden out of sight. She climbed steps made of flesh and bone, before approaching a small round stone held in suspension above a greath column of fire that had stretched from the very base of the tower. She reached for it and closed her hand around it, closing her eyes in pain at the heat that burned even as she drew the stone back. The world around her began to shake, to tremble and to break apart. _

_She fell into nothingness and landed, panting for breath, outside a city wreathed with snow, the sigil stone still clutched tightly in her fist, smouldering with some unnatural light. She looked down at the stone and within it saw a woman with pale skin and amber eyes, most of her face hidden beneath a cowl of white leather. _

_She was standing at a forge with a blade of dark curved steel. The blade still shone with heat and she ran it down her arm, bared for this purpose, allowing her blood to run freely down the hot metal. She then moved to the grindstone and sharpened the blade, chanting as she did so._

"_Sweet mother, sweet mother," she whispered in a sing song voice, "Tell me what you wish, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptised in blood and fear. Sweet mother, sweet mother tell me what you wish, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptised in blood and fear. As she sang, the blood seemed to sink into the blade as it cooled, shining with some dark power. "Sweet mother, sweet mother tell me what you wish, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptised in blood and fear." Finally, she stopped chanting and raised the blade up for inspection. "Darkness rises when silence dies," she whispered. "The silence of the Night Mother is soon to begin."_

"_Don't say that."_

"_I am as one with the void. The Dread Father holds no fear in my eyes; I wish nothing more than to live forever in his embrace."_

"_Nothing?" his arms snaked around her waist, drawing her up to her feet. She turned and looked into his eyes, dark as her own and yet somehow lacking the darkness that dwelt within. "If you are there with me, of course," she conceded. _

_It seemed that his eyes were reflecting something other than her face, and even as his hand pulled down the white cowl that covered her mouth she felt herself falling, watching as a man on horseback rose alone through wild countryside, towards a distant city where loud cries could be heard, although from this distance it was hard to tell if they were cries of joy or fear. _

_She was drawn back to the forge and the woman in white at the pressure and warmth of someone's lips against her own, the sense of urgency, a sense of need and desire. A need that had to be quenched before the sun rose and they were forced to flee from this place to their sanctuary, that place where they and those like them would forever be safe from the law that pursued them._

_And a voice whispered to her. "You see, my child." It was not the usual voice, not the soft and gentle voice that she had heard so much recently. This voice was darker, hoarse and much quieter. "Come to your mother. I have waited so long, and the Dread Father wishes only to take you in his cold embrace."_

"The fourth trial is complete, Vaermina is appeased."

Iona woke screaming. She stumbled from the bed, aware of Vilkas' eyes upon her, his questions, trying to calm her down. She shrugged him off, fighting tears as she scrambled for her clothes. She left her armour, settling with only the simple clothes she had worn beneath.

"I will be back," she said, turning to him and looking him in the eye, willing him to believe her, to trust her. "There… there is someone I need to speak to, some things I need to do."

"Then let me help."

"I… I… if I can find a way, I will let you know."

"Then I will be waiting, right here." She turned and ran from the room, out of Jorrvaskr and down to Breezehome. She snatched a pen from the table and scratched out one more name from the list pinned to the door, before rushing upstairs and waking Lydia.

"Iona what is it?" the housecarl blinked, trying to clear the sleep away from her eyes. "What's wrong?" Iona told her everything she had seen in her dreams, of the woman with the dagger, the woman in Oblivion, the brief glimpse of Talos, the words of the Night Mother.

"So let's get this straight, you think this woman… this listener… is you?" Iona nodded.

"She looks like me," Iona whispered. "And the Night Mother spoke. I heard the voice of the Night Mother."

"How do you know that wasn't just part of the dream," Lydia said calmly, "There's no way to prove that she wasn't just speaking to this woman you saw at the forge."

"But…" she took a deep breath. "Vilkas was there with her. He's always with her, no matter where I see them."

"Look, I don't claim to know a lot about visions of the future, but I'm pretty sure I don't see you becoming an assassin. You have control of your future, not the Gods, no matter how many trials they want to set you."

"But how can I know for sure?"

"Do something an assassin wouldn't do," Lydia suggested. "Keep fighting and keep searching for a way to hit this problem head on. Fight whatever it is these visions want you to do."

"Fight it," Iona whispered. "You think I can do that?"

"I think you can fight anything if you put your mind to it."

"Fight it…" she whispered, her conversation with Vilkas by the forge coming back to her. "Fight them."

"Fight who?" Lydia's eyes widened as she realised who she meant. "You can't be serious?"

"Why the hell not," Iona grinned, leaping up and running down. She scrabbled for a minute to get her key into the trapdoor lock, but soon enough she was down and running to the armoury. There was one set she'd commissioned personally from Eorlund as the Dragonborn. She'd never really intended to wear it. It had been more an experiment than anything else, a test to see if it was genuinely possible, as all the old books said.

The armour stood on a stand in the corner of her bedroom and she strapped it on easily. It was a little heavier than the leather she usually wore, but it offered far more protection and was easily the more intimidating of the two. She hesitated for a moment with the helmet and then left it behind, opting for a dragon priest mask instead. Konahrik had saved her life the day before, and who was to say it wouldn't do the same again today.

Next, with the help of a very much coerced Lydia, she took the best armour she had collected over the years. She could not take all the companions with her, so took a selection of light and heavy armours, which she would gift to those who came with her.

She could not take more than three, she thought, if Lydia joined them. She took, therefore, three sets of ebony and two of elvish, before heading to the weapon rack and selecting Nahkriin's staff and the Nightingale blade. She would need both in the journey to come. "Will you come with us?" she asked, turning to her friend and housecarl.

"Yes," Lydia said instantly. "But I'll say now I think this is a bad idea."

"You don't even know what we're doing," she said, smiling a little as she put on her mask

"I have some idea, and that's terrifying enough even without the details."

"Good. Then let's go." Together, they carried the armour up to Jorrvaskr. Truly it was only the ebony armour that was the problem, for the golden armour of the elves was light enough to be barely noticeable.

Her strange apparel attracted not some small amount of attention, which was quite a lot when added to that usually created by the Dragonborn as she moved up to Jorrvaskr. "Is your armour made of… dragon scales?" she heard a guard ask. He whistled as she and Lydia passed. "What I wouldn't do for a set of that." She didn't look around at him, but continued up to Jorrvaskr. Vilkas was standing by the gate and Iona realised with a pang that he was probably looking out for her. She beckoned him to follow her into the mead hall, where she was relieved to find that everyone was there, eating their breakfast or preparing for the days training. They glanced up as the door opened and then looked again. Iona's armour was undoubtedly impressive. Green dragon scales and bleached bones worked together to create a flawless suit of light armour, coupled with the golden mask.

She hesitated for a moment and glanced at Lydia, who shrugged. "Get it over with I guess?" she whispered.

"I need three warriors," Iona began, weaving the Thu'um into her voice so as to make it unrecognisable, "No more and preferably no less, to accompany me on a mission that we probably won't return from."

"Great way to build confidence," Torvar shouted from across the room. Someone laughed and Iona hesitated a moment before progressing.

"I wish to launch an attack upon the hunting grounds of Hircine." Silence. Everyone was gaping at her, quite clearly of the belief that she was mad.

"How do you even plan to get there?" Vilkas asked quietly.

"There is a portal to Sovngarde in the mountains above Riften," she replied. "I have the key and I believe from there I can get us to the realm of Hircine, as well as enlist some help along the way. I understand that perhaps there are some here who have no wish to do this, but any brave enough to volunteer are welcome."

"I will come," Vilkas said instantly as Iona had known he would.

"Are there any more volunteers?"

"I will come," Kodlak said, standing and moving to stand by Iona and Vilkas.

"This is madness," Aela said after a moment. "What do you plan to do once in the Hunting Grounds?"

"I plan to free the generations of companions who are there against their will." There was some clear confusion – how could the Dragonborn know this private information? "There is still a space for one more warrior. Is there a volunteer?"

"I won't sit by and let this happen without me," Aela said at last. "Count me in."

"Good. Take your armour and meet me by the city gates as soon as possible." She turned and turned to leave. She had just left the hall when she heard a voice behind her.

"Wait." It was Vilkas and she turned to see him, holding an ebony helmet and his face torn with indecision. She indicated to Lydia to wait for her, then moved to the side of the hall, out of sight, and waited for him to speak.

"I… I want to come," he began, "But I don't think I can." She started in surprise, but he went on. "I told a… a friend that I would wait for her." She looked him in the eye and saw the indecision warring within, emotions fighting for dominance – a need to aid his brother, a desire to be part of the raid and… and a wish to wait behind for an elf he barely knew, and had slept with once in a moment of loneliness, and promised to help because he was a good man.

"You promised Iona you would do what you could to help her," she said at last. He jumped a little at the name. "This is what you can do. You can come with me to the hunting grounds and you can save Farkas' soul."


	7. Hircine, Lord of the Hunt

_Hircine__ is the Daedric prince whose sphere is the Hunt, the Sport of Daedra, the Great Game, and the Chase; he is known as the Huntsman and the Father of Manbeasts._

They met her as instructed and together Iona, Lydia and the three companions walked a short distance from the city. When they reached a field bare enough, Iona looked to the sky. "ODAHVIING!" she Shouted, waiting until the red dragon approached. She saw Vilkas and Aela tense beside her and held up her hand. "Don't," she said as he came into land.

"Briinah," he said, his voice rumbling as he bowed his head in acknowledgement of her presence, "Drem yol lok."

"Greetings to you as well, Odahviing. I would ask a favour of you."

"Of course, Dohvakiin. What is it you would wish?"

"I wish to return, with my companions, to Skuldafn."

"That is a dark, abandoned place. Gaaf, sil. Ghosts of Alduin and his ilk."

"Will you take us?" she asked. "It is of great importance that we reach the temple."

"Unslaad Krosis. I shall take you and those with you, Dohvakiin."

* * *

><p>When Odahviing departed, Iona strode ahead, only realising that she had left the others behind when she reached the end of the thin walkway that lead to the temple proper. Kodlak was watching, apparently somewhat bemused, as the others recovered from the flight. Iona smiled beneath her mask and waited for them to follow her. She lead them through the deserted temple, past the long decayed bodies of draugr, the bones of dragons and, eventually, past a pile of ash that had once been a dragon priest. She reached behind her back and drew the staff the priest had wielded against her, moving towards the portal in the centre of the courtyard.<p>

A blast of blue light signalled the opening of the portal and Iona felt it pull at her, tugging her inside. She turned to the others, saw the apprehension on their faces, and stepped backwards into the portal.

The skies of Sovngarde were bright with stars, the air clear – a far cry from her last visit. She settled down upon the grass to wait for the others. Kodlak and Lydia came through first, both of them moving to the top of the hill on which they now stood to take in the sight of Shor's hall in the distance. "It is just as they say," Kodlak said quietly after a moment. "Truly, a haven for all nords."

Soon, Vilkas and Aela had joined them, and Iona allows Kodlak to take the lead, allowing herself to appreciate her surroundings now that they were no longer covered in Alduin's great fog. There were people walking around, most heading towards the hall and yet others simply sitting in the sun. Iona smiled as she saw a face she knew and hurried forward.

Gormlaith glanced up at the sound of running feet and pushed herself from the grass. "Dragonborn," she said, bowing slightly in greeting. "It is good to see you again, although I had not expected you for some time."

"I'm not dead," she dismissed the point, "Simply passing through."

"That is not something many people do in Sovngarde," Gormlaith laughed. "You have a new mask?"

"What? Oh, yes." Iona had not yet obtained Konahrik when she defeated Alduin, and had instead been wearing a mask that boosted her magic abilities.

"And you fight with a sword, not your magic. I knew you would see the light one day."

"Quite," Iona said, managing a slight laugh. "Gormlaith Golden-Hilt," she said after a moment. "My companions and I are launching an attack on the hunting grounds of Hircine. We would be honoured if you would join us in this quest."

"You brought more people?" Gormlaith moved to look at those who had come through the portal with Iona as though to assess them each in turn.

"This is Lydia, my housecarl, Vilkas and Aela of the companions and Kodlak, their harbinger."

"Companions? We haven't seen any of them for many years now."

"They go to the hunting grounds," Kodlak said, stepping forward, "Living out their eternity with Hircine in his games."

"Well then, I should be most eager to join your quest. I shall go now to Shor's hall, and bring with me Felldir and Hakon, who I am sure will be honoured to join you too."

They walked the short distance to the hall together and then hung back as Gormlaith went inside. Iona nodded to Tsun, who showed no sign that he saw her, and turned to the others. "Gormlaith and the others were the three warriors who first defeated Alduin, banishing him in time and allowing me to fight him here in Sovngarde."

"That must surely have been a fight to behold," Kodlak said, not looking at her but instead with his head tilted back as he took in the vast sky, full of stars.

"Maybe." Iona shrugged. She couldn't really remember the fight, which had raged for many hours even with the aid of the three masters of the Voice. The only part that was truly impressed upon her memory was the moment when Alduin was slain, his soul fleeing to the skies of Sovngarde.

Sounds on the bridge made her turn back to Shor's hall, where Gormlaith, Hakon and Felldir were leading what appeared to be a small army. Iona gaped.

"The companions of Sovngarde would not be left behind!" Hakon shouted as they reached the end of the bridge. "One last fight, for the glory of Sovngarde!"

"Thank you," Iona said, taking a deep bow to the assembled heroes. Once they had all crossed the bridge, she turned to the near unmoving Tsun. "Will you send us on to the hunting grounds?"

"I can send you there," he said after a moment, "But I cannot bring you back should you fail in your mission."

"Well then let's get on with it!" Gormlaith shouted. "For Sovngarde!" The cheer was taken up on all sides, mixed with a shout long known to the companions. "For Jorrvaskr and the glory of Ysgramor!"

Iona could not make out the words of Tsun's Shout, but she felt the effect instantly. Her vision blurred, the skies of Sovgngarde replaced by the roof of a dark cavern. Wolves howled, and through a gap in the ceiling, Iona could see a red moon. _Bloodmoon_.

Without any true warning, the wolves were upon them. The warriors of Sovngarde, being already dead, fought without fear or mercy, while those who had journeyed from Nirn fought with more caution. Kodlak and Vilkas seemed unwilling to attack the wolves that surrounded them, while Aela withdrew out of harms reach, bow at the ready, willing to attack anything that threatened her. Iona chewed her lip for a moment and took a deep breath, preparing her shout. "RAAN MIR!" she bellowed, and the wolves stopped, cowed by her Voice.

In the ensuing silence, a figure approached, garbed in leather and fur, his helmet decorated with large curled antlers. "Hircine, Lord of the Hunt," Iona murmured.

"Quite," he replied, stepping towards her. His voice exactly as it had been in the vision, everything about him telling her that this was the same man. "It has been some time since last we spoke mortal, some long years." She started and he laughed at her confusion. "Still you have not worked it out? The days of your trials grow long, and we grow bored watching you struggle through them. Appeasing a Prince is difficult at best, but appeasing a bored Prince? Well now that is another story. Tell me, mortal, what is it you seek here in my realm?"

"I seek freedom for the souls of the Companions," she replied, her voice shaking.

"Liar," Hircine replied simply. "You seek my appeasement. You seek answers to your questions, an end to these trials." The wolves growled, padding towards their lord and master, teeth bared as they turned to face the army of Sovngarde. "Well, mortal. If you wish to pass my trial, you must defeat me in battle, without the aid of your army."

"I will fight without them, if you will leave your pets behind."

"If you can beat me in battle, I shall grant a boon to all the living companions present here today!" he laughed, clearly anticipating his own victory.

"And you must swear to free the souls of the companions should I win."

"I will free those who wish to be freed, and keep those who wish to stay if that is to be your boon. Now mortal, will you fight me?"

"I will."

"Then let us begin." White light enveloped them and Iona suddenly found herself alone with Hircine in the centre of a large ring. The heroes of Sovngarde stood surrounding them, as did the wolves of Hircine. "You wish for my approval, and so you shall fight me as you see me now, a deadric Prince in all his glory!"

Iona barely managed to draw her sword to deflect Hircine's first strike. He looked like a man, yet he fought like an animal, tooth and claw, trying to find purchase on her armour. She knocked him with the hilt of her blade, but he simply batted it away, jumping onto all fours, his eyes gleaming through the slits in his helmet.

"You cannot beat me, Dohvakiin," he snarled. "No one can defeat me!"

"You've been beaten before," she panted, "Or you will be one day."

"What nonsense is this?"

"The Bloodmoon. You have been defeated in the Bloodmoon." He snarled again, this time leaping at her from behind. She ducked and he missed, his claw instead catching upon the fabric that covered her hair while she wore the mask, tearing it. She scrabbled desperately to catch it, to secure it back in place, but it soon became apparent that she could not wear the mask and fight Hircine at the same time. She pulled the mask off and threw it to one side. The companions were behind her, but it was only a matter of time until they saw her face now – if they hadn't already.

Vilkas watched from the side as the Dragonborn fought. There was something here he didn't understand – he had been lead to believe the Dragonborn was a master sorcerer, able to defeat enemies with nothing more than a flick of her wrist, yet here she was battling it out with a sword, and not one that was particularly well handled either. He realised now that she had fought in the same way when they battled the dragon in Whiterun.

There didn't appear to be anything holding him and the others back from the fight at first glance, but he could feel some force repelling him from moving any nearer when he tried to step forward so as to see what was happening clearer.

When Hircine ripped the mask from the Dragonborn's face, he felt more than heard Aela's sharp intake of breath and the clenching of her muscles. He watched as she struggled to keep the mask in place and then, realising it would not work, throwing it away.

Now it was his turn to freeze. The air locked up in his chest as he realised just who it was facing Hircine. He could only see the back of her head, but he was sure. As though to tell him he was right, a voice whispered in his ear, one he had heard not a small amount of times these past few weeks. _"Go now, I will remove the barrier for you. Run."_

And he ran forward, feeling the barrier lift for just the briefest of seconds as Hircine leapt at Iona, his claws tearing through the skin of her face. She collapsed to the ground, a mess of blood, sweat and tears.

"You have intervened, mortal," Hircine boomed. "Is it that you wish to take her place in this fight?"

"I'll do that," he replied, drawing his sword and moving between the deadric prince and Iona. _"Hold him off, just for a short while. It will not be long now."_ When Hircine attacked, Vilkas was ready for him, knocking him away with the flat of his blade before swinging. The Lord of the hunt was easily the fastest of the pair, and his strength was not something to be underestimated, easily matching and quite probably surpassing Vilkas' own.

Still, this did not mean he didn't put up one hell of a fight, causing Hircine more than a little grief. Within less than a minute they were both out of breath, both bleeding from superficial wounds. Anger was clear on Hircine's face as he moved back, like a wolf preparing for one last attack.

He leapt, a snarling mass of something that wasn't quite a man, but wasn't a wolf either. Vilkas saw death in the prince's eyes and raised his weapon in one last desperate stand when…

"JOOR ZAH FRUL!"

Iona heaved herself to her feet, one hand covering her right eye, blood oozing out between her fingers. Blue light filled the cavern, pinning Hircine to the ground. "It's not so much fun now is it," she said, wiping blood from her lips, "playing these games. Not when you're mortal." Hircine growled and tried to push himself up from the ground, only to be pushed back down by the power of the Shout. "Admit defeat," she told him, "And I spare your life."

"This is not defeat," he panted, finally pushing himself to his feet.

"JOOR!" she Shouted, forcing him down once more. "You can be killed while this Shout is in effect. You know it, I know it. Admit defeat before the army of Sovngarde, Lord Hircine of the hunt, or you will be slaughtered like the animal you are." Still he did not speak, but simply kept trying to force himself up from the ground, even to crawl forward towards Iona and Vilkas. "JOOR!" she repeated, her eyes narrowing as, finally, Hircine fully collapsed onto the ground.

"I admit my defeat at your hands, Dohvakiin."

"Then by the terms you set yourself, you owe every living companion in this room a boon."

"Anything that is within my power to grant," he growled. The power that had held the others back had dissipated, and now Aela, Lydia and Kodlak moved forward to join them, facing Hircine as Dragonrend finally wore off. He moved to his feet, rolling his head as though warming down. "Companion," he barked at Kodlak, "You make your request first."

"Very well," Kodlak said. "I request that all Companions held within the hunting grounds are given the opportunity to live their eternity out in Sovngarde."

"Your boon is granted. Next, you." He pointed a clawed finger at Aela.

"I ask that the Companions of years to come be given the same choice between Sovngarde and the hunting grounds."

"You ask too much girl," he growled. "I will grant this request for the Companions as they are now, but future generations must be made to understand the truth of the choice when they take the beast blood. That is when their choice will be made. You," he turned to Vilkas, "What is your boon?"

"My brother…" he began.

"Is dead," Hircine snapped. "Nothing can be done for him that has not already been done. I will grant you one conversation with him before your return to Nirn, but I can do no more." Vilkas nodded, and now everyone turned to look at Iona. "And you Dohvakiin," Hircine said with narrowed eyes, "What is it you ask of me?"

"Understanding," she said.

"That is not something I can give to you. That will come in time, from those who know your full story. For now, mortal, I will allow that you have exceeded my expectations and passed my trial. Hircine is appeased!"

As Hircine uttered the words, Iona felt something tug at her, pulling her from the ground. She blinked once, twice and opened her eyes to find herself at the top of a snow covered mountain; the Throat of the World. Back on Nirn, she realised for the first time just how much blood she had lost and her head began to spin, she moved her hand away from her eye, but there was no change to her vision. She could see the blood on her gauntlets, but even as she looked her hand appeared to blur before her eyes and very suddenly the ground was rushing towards her.

They did not begin the long descent until the following day, when Iona's head had been sufficiently healed and bandaged. Her eye was not damaged, but her vision had been obscured by blood leaking into it from a forehead wound, which would heal well enough now that it had been treated. The air grew warmer as they passed High Hrothgar, and the snow began to thin out as Ivarstead came into view. They didn't talk much on the way down, the things that had happened in the hunting grounds, the secret that had been revealed, weighing them down a little. When they reached the hamlet at the base of the mountain, Iona revealed her intentions.

"I'm heading to Riften," she said, not turning to look at any of their faces, "Alone. I can't go to Whiterun in this armour without my mask, and if I'm seen with all of you too much, people will figure out who I am anyway."

"At least let me…" Lydia began.

"No," Iona said without letting her finish. "People know you're my… the Dragonborn's housecarl. It wouldn't be too hard to put two and two together."

"You're in no fit state to be wondering the country alone girl," Kodlak said his voice harsh, but his eyes soft. "You are a companion, and a companion should accompany you."

"I'm sure Vilkas wouldn't mind," Aela suggested, a little too innocently.

"No, I'm sure he would not," Kodlak agreed, turning to the hulking nord.

"I want to do this alone," Iona said, deliberately avoiding Vilkas' eyes. "I need some time to think. To be by myself. It's not far from here to Riften, and I can get back to Whiterun from there easily enough. Besides, what with all my scars, bandits'll probably avoid me." She managed an almost convincing grin. "I'll stay a night here and head out to Riften I the morning."

"Iona," Lydia began, "I really don't…"

"I'll manage," she replied. "I always do, right?"

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><p>Not quite trusting the others to let her leave on her own, Iona rose early the following morning, walking quietly past Lydia's bed and into the main part of the inn. The room was quiet, the embers of the fire still not quite dead and only one person sitting at the bar. She was not at all surprised that it was Vilkas and it seemed that he was unsurprised to see her too.<p>

"I thought you might be up early," he said without even looking.

"I need this time," she said, almost pleadingly. "Just to… get my head straight."

"I get it," he replied, turning a little so she could see the side of his face.

"You spoke with Farkas, didn't you?"

"Yeah. He's in Sovngarde now, with a few of the others. Most of them were too lost to Hircine's games to even care where they were anymore."

"But you got Farkas out. That's got to count for something."

"Yeah, I guess. I know I have a choice now. I know Sovngarde will be there for me but… but I've seen Hircine now, I've seen his games. Suddenly the part of me that's the wolf… well, it doesn't really feel like a part of me anymore."

"Keep looking. There will be a way to get rid of it in this life."

"I hope so."

"You're not going to try convince me to stay?"

"Is there any point?" He turned to look at her fully now. "If you want to go, you'll go, nothing I can do to stop you, you'd just Shout me down."

"No I wouldn't," she whispered.

"Well I'd like you to stay." He shrugged. "But I won't make you." He stood and turned to the room he and Kodlak had booked for the night. He stopped about a foot to the side of Iona and turned to look at her. "Don't get hurt."

"I'm the Dragonborn, what could possibly go wrong?" she joked. Vilkas laughed a little, but it was clearly forced.

The kiss was short, but warm. Iona broke off and ran for the door. She wasn't sure how she felt about anything in her life at the moment, least of all Vilkas. The night's rest had done her some good, the pain in her head having faded quite significantly. The road was quiet so early in the morning, the birds only just beginning to sing, the touch of night still lingering across the land, but her hand never strayed too far from her weapon, loose in its sheath at her hip.

Her journey was, however, uneventful for the most part, and she reached Riften before sundown having killed nothing more interesting or dangerous than a pair of wolves far out in the wilderness where she could safely dispatch them with the use of her Voice.

The very first thing she did was head to Honeyside (inadvertently discovering how Lydia had found her way into the underground manor in the first place) and change into a simple tunic. She didn't want to return to Whiterun quite yet, which gave her two choices – she could either drop by the Ragged Flagon, or patron the Bee and Barb. When she settled upon the flagon, she changed once more, donning her Guildmaster's armour.

The secret passage to the cistern was still undiscovered, so she skipped a treacherous journey through the Ratway and was greeted warmly by Brynjolf at the base of the ladder. "Good to see you lass," he called as she waved once in his direction. "Though you look a little worse for wear. Didn't get caught I hope?"

"Not quite."

"You brought anything worth having?" She nodded, dropping a bag that contained a large fortune in gems and enchanted weaponry by the desk. Technically, it was more looted than stolen and had in fact been sitting in her manor for a few years now, but she doubted anyone at the guild particularly cared so long as she kept bringing it in. "Up for a drink, Bryn?" she asked, pausing at the edge of the Cistern.

"I'll skip it today. There's a dark crowd in there today."

"Darker than usual?"

"Aye, much darker." She shrugged and headed through into the bar. The place was almost deserted – even Dirge had deserted his usual spot by the entrance, and Vekel had his eyes fixed on his lone customer, who was talking in a loud, high pitched voice, his speech coming thick and fast.

"But mother and I weren't all that welcome, you see. We moved on, we found a new home. Of course, Cicero is rarely welcome these days, and mother is so… silent." Vekel caught Iona's eyes as she approached the bar and shook his head very slightly – a warning, perhaps? – but it was too late. The stranger had seen her.

"And who is this?" he cried, dancing up to her, the bells upon his hat ringing loudly. "Another thief hiding in the filth of course, scurrying in the Ratway like the vermin you are!"

"Shut it you!" Vekel snapped at him. "I won't have you insulting my regulars."

"Oh yes?" he laughed, a laugh as demented as the small jester appeared to be in his patchwork suit of red and black leather. "And what will you do when Cicero prays to his mother for your name? Mother listens to Cicero, even if Cicero cannot listen to mother!" Vekel through his hands in the air.

"The bar's closed," he shouted. "Go to the Bee and Barb if you wan't a drink." He stormed into the back room, slamming the door behind it. Iona could hear the distinct sound of a bolt sliding into place at the other side. Shrugging, she took a drink anyway, placing a couple of Septims in its place.

"Cicero will show them," the small man whispered. "Cicero will show them all, when mother speaks." Iona had a growing suspicion about the little man, and kept stealing glances at him from the corner of her eye. It was possible he was simply mad… but there was a strange darkness to his madness, an edge she didn't like.

A strange, mad thought occurred to her as she remembered her dreams, the many things she had seen. "Darkness rises when silence dies," she said quietly. The muttering stopped instantly and when she looked again, the jester – Cicero – was looking at her with narrowed eyes.

"What… what did you say?" his voice was quietly excited, building up, bubbling to something huge.

"Darkness rises when silence dies," she repeated.

"Haha!" he crowed, leaping from his stool and sending it flying. "Cicero has done it! They said it could not be done, but Cicero has done it, done what they said he could not! Cicero has found the listener!"


	8. Hermaeus Mora

**I know this is shorter than usual :( But the next part should be up tomorrow to compensate :D Plus, I kinda like this chapter, even if it is short. Thanks for all the comments so far, but I know there are more watching this than two or three ;) I don't bite… much…**

**Thanks to those who pointed out a couple of reeeally stupid mistakes in the last chapter, lol.  
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><p><em>Hermaeus Mora<em>_ is the Prince whose sphere is scrying of the tides of fate, of the past and future as read in the stars and heaven, and in whose dominion are the treasures of knowledge and memory._

Iona wasn't sure what she had been thinking when she said those words. In fact, she wondered if she had been thinking at all. The little imperial had danced and hugged her, singing about the joyful days to come, about the return to tradition and about his mother.

The night mother. For Cicero, she now knew for certain, was the keeper of the Dark Brotherhood. "Cicero shouldn't even be out on jobs anyway, no," he had confided in her. "But the woman wants Cicero gone, yes she does, so she sends him anyway. Jobs far from home and from mother, but does she care?" his voice rose with emotion as he spoke, his lip trembling as though he might cry. "But we will show them listener, will show them all. Yes we will."

In a state of Fugue, she had allowed Cicero to take her by the arm to the city gates, had sat numbly by as he paid the coach driver to take them to Falkreath. In fact, her first reaction had been to jump away when Cicero killed the driver at least an hour from their destination and reclaim his coin. "Come listener," he cackled. "Let us see how they react when I tell them. Ooh I can see their faces, I can!"

He had danced away and she had followed, still in some kind of stupor. The door was dark stone, and Cicero spoke to it, causing it to swing open. Iona was not listening, her eyes fixed somewhen that wasn't quite her own time.

She had been here before, she was sure of it. Everything felt oppressively familiar, from the strange door to the bubbling tar pit to the side. As she followed the jester inside, the feeling simply intensified, pressing down upon her as Cicero danced ahead, singing for anyone present to hear.

"Cicero has done it!" he crowed. "Cicero has found the listener!"

"What's the damn fool prattling on about this time?" a low voice, sparking many different laughs. A cold laugh tinged with a Hammerfell accent, a snicker from the Black Marsh, and a high pitched giggle almost (but not quite) like that of a little girl.

"Laugh all you will dog! But Cicero has done it at last, has brought the mother her listener!"

_And what a listener you shall be_, a voice hissed in Iona's ear. A dark voice, tinged with power. _Come to me, my listener, and hear my words. I have waited so long to speak with you._

"The listener?" A questioning female voice, calm and collected – doubly so when heard next to Cicero's mad gabbling speech. "Where?"

"Listener?" Cicero came dancing up the stairs ahead of Iona. "Come, listener, come. Mother will need to speak with you!" Iona allowed him to lead her once more, her eyes seeing not the dilapidated sanctuary she was within, but the place it had once been, a grand underground headquarters – the very first in Skyrim, in fact the very first outside of Cyrodiil. She reached out to touch the walls, her fingers brushing tapestries that had not been there for centuries as they skidded over what were in reality bare stone walls.

She emerged into a glorious cavern full of bright light. This was not a place in which they would hide, not a place in which they needed to scurry from shadow to shadow but could live together, waiting for the words of the Night Mother.

Then it was gone, and she looked instead upon a dark cave full of overgrown weeds. In fact, the only true similarity between the two was the curved wall, covered in mostly undecipherable script. Her eyes ran over it, finding a word she did not know, acknowledging it, finding its meaning. Aus. Suffer.

She turned away from the wall to see a small group of people staring at her, dressed in black and red leather that aided them in blending with the shadows. As she looked at them, her eyes were caught by what appeared to be a stain glass window in the cave wall behind them. Her breath caught in her throat and her vision closed in once again, a new vision coming to her.

"_Take it," the assassin whispered, looking up at the window, now finished, the new sanctuary finished at last. "When the silence has begun, bring it here."_

"_Why here?" he asked. _

"_This is where the Night Mother wishes it to be. She feels a great affinity in this sanctuary, a potential for the future, and she wishes that her greatest gift should wait here for one with the right to reclaim it. A listener of many years from now."_

"_And where shall I hide it?" His voice was sad, weary. Over the past months, he had grown used to her talk of death, if not accepting of it. _

"_Beneath the water," she replied, striding forward, her red cloak floating on the surface behind her. "Where only one who it is there may find it. This is the Night Mother's decree."_

As Iona's vision returned, she found herself stumbling forward, past the group of assassins and down into the water, her heart racing. Her teeth were clenched as she took a deep breath and submerged herself and opened her eyes. The world was dark and murky in the dirty water, but she scrabbled in the silt at the bottom of the pool, hoping it would be there, almost praying to find it.

Her hands brushed against something smooth. A solid wooden box. She fumbled and found a handle, bringing her head above the surface once more and pulling, dragging the box up from the depths, out of the water and onto the dry stone above.

Most of the strangers were watching her with confusion, a little apprehension and perhaps some amusement. Cicero appeared to be dancing, his eyes alight with fervour, biting his lip as Iona moved to examine the lock.

"The blade," she said, running a finger around the imprint on the side of the chest. "The Blade of Woe." The name came to her without effort, as though she had known it all along.

"I don't know about this," someone began.

"Just give her the damn weapon Astrid," someone else interrupted – an old man, peering at Iona with keen interest.

"Yes, yes! Give the listener the key!" Cicero was skipping around the lot of them, his eyes not moving from Iona.

"I'll admit, I'm interested to see what's in there," the Redguard said, looking at Astrid.

"And besides," the youngest member of the group, a little girl no older than ten, said, "There are enough of us to take it from her if it comes to it."

"Very well." Astrid removed a dagger from her belt and held it out towards Iona, who took it. She looked very closely at the weapon for a moment, but there was no doubting that this was the same blade to the one she had seen forged with steel and blood.

"The sins of the unworthy," she whispered, "Baptised in blood, and in fear." She slotted the weapon into the side of the chest and held her breath. The lock clicked, and the chest opened.

She drew out the cloak first, the ends of which were burnt and black, damaged by fire. _Screams and heat, a troublesome contract, but not one beyond her capabilities. Scorched and bruised, she ran from the city. _Beneath the cloak sat the armour made from white leather that was supple, strong and clearly enchanted.

She drew it out, looking for the hole, the place where the armour had been pierced, but that had clearly been repaired before the armour was placed in the chest.

"Mother will be pleased!" Cicero whooped. "Cicero has done well, done better than any. Cicero has brought the listener!"

"We heard you the first time," a large nord snapped at him.

"Ahh, but even Cicero did not understand," the jester giggled. "Cicero has done so well, and mother will reward him! Cicero has brought the listener."

"Explain what you mean, fool!" Astrid snapped at him.

"The listener," Cicero replied, rolling his eyes as though it were obvious. "_The_ listener, the first listener, the founder of the brotherhood, reborn to this world as the Night Mother decreed!"

"What nonsense is this?" the Redguard asked, laughing.

"Nonsense? No, no, no!" Cicero shouted. "It's all there in the keeping tomes, all there from the beginning. Cicero has seen them, yes, Cicero knows. The greatest listener the brotherhood ever knew, a gift from the mother herself! The Black Sacrament given form."

Iona could not look away from the armour. Strange whispers hissed in her ear, to quiet to understand and yet with an intention all too clear. These were the prayers made to the Night Mother since the founding of the Dark Brotherhood, each a death wish from one soul for another. Every time someone had said the prayer, the armour had grown a little in power, hidden in its chest beneath the pool in the Falkreath sanctuary.

Somehow, holding the cold leather in her hands somehow felt comforting; as though it were a part of her long ago left behind. "I see," Astrid said at last.

"This can only be a good thing," the old man said. "A long awaited return to tradition – to the tenets!"

"The tenets have been abandoned?" Iona asked, surprised to find she knew exactly what the old man was referring to. "And whose glorious idea was that?"

"It was the woman," Cicero cackled. "Their leader, their Astrid. Creating her own family from yours, listener." He was now sitting by the water, arms around his legs as he looked between Iona and the assembled assassins, eyes wide.

"Let me get this straight," Iona said, rising to her feet. "You took charge of the Brotherhood and, spitting upon thousands of years of tradition, centuries of dedication and decades of pure grit, decided you could build it better?" Memories were slotting into place, of a life that wasn't quite her own, but seemed to fit, seemed to make sense. She ran her fingers over the leather in her hands, drawing strength from the prayers. She reached forward and took the Blade of Woe from the lock and stood, turning to face Astrid, who still hadn't replied. "Were you truly arrogant enough to believe that your ideas would last longer than those of the Night Mother? Do you even worship our Dread Father anymore?" she asked, voice rising in volume, gaining confidence as the memories began to eclipse those of the Dragonborn, those of the Archmage, those of the Guildmaster… those of a Companion.

Perhaps some part of her was aware of this, some small part sensing the loss, crying for it and mourning, but it was quiet. Louder in her mind was the satisfied male voice that whispered, "Hermaeus Mora is appeased."

* * *

><p>Their return to Jorrvaskr should have been a triumphant day. They should have shouted of their victory for all to hear, made sure the whole of Skyrim knew of their bravery, but somehow they none of them could find it in themselves to do it. Even Aela, who had been for the most part indifferent to Iona as she trained, was somehow quietened by the events that had transpired in the hunting grounds.<p>

Needless to say, two weeks with neither sight nor sound from Iona did anything to make Vilkas rest easy. He knew her housecarls were out searching the whole of Skyrim, and had been assured by Lydia that other, quieter, searches were being conducted alongside this, but still he felt uneasy.

With quite a lot of persuasion, Lydia had finally filled both himself and Kodlak in on the unusual (and confusing) position Iona had found herself in over the past few weeks, something else which had not served to make him feel any better.

Someone was checking in on her house every day, the High King had trusted scouts looking for her… but Vilkas felt that if that elf didn't want to be found, nothing on Nirn or Oblivion would help them find her.

Often, when he slept at night, the voice would whisper in his ear, tell him that she was safe for now, that he was not to worry, that it would work out in the end, but he tried not to listen. Taking heed of the voice in his head was not going to help at a time like this.

So instead he had dived into his work with the companions, taking on twice as many jobs as usual and completing them in a quarter of the time. He barely slept, barely ate and worst of all, could barely explain even to himself why he cared so much.


	9. Assassin, Murder, Monster

**Another short one I'm afraid :( But points to the first person who guesses the identity of the unnamed man ;p easy peasy lemon squeezy.**

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><p><strong>Four Months Later<strong>

Her blade slid between the orc's shoulder blades with ease and he fell silently. She wiped the blade clean on his shirt and then knelt down, rummaging through his pockets until she found what she wanted. Smiling, she nudged him with the two of her boot and he rolled easily down the hill into the water at the bottom. There would be a little blood on the water, but it would soon dissipate. It was unlikely the orc would be found in time, and that was all that mattered. She slid the paper into a pocket and sheathed the Blade of Woe, turning away from the water.

Now it was back to Falkreath and from there to Solitude, her months of work now on the verge of paying off at long last. The journey barely seemed to take any time at all, and then she was in the sanctuary; home. Astrid was in her room to one side, and she could hear Cicero singing even from here. She turned to meet with Astrid who, despite her many, many flaws, had been of more than a little use these last weeks, planning the most daring assassination the Brotherhood had undertaken in far too long.

"You have it?" she asked, looking up as Iona lowered her hood and pulled down her cowl.

"Of course I have it," she replied, flashing the paper before Astrid. "Have you arranged the getaway."

"It's all sorted. Leave through the upper door and across the bridge. I've… arranged… for it to be unguarded once the alarm has been sounded."

"Good," Iona glanced up from the papers littering the desk. "Keep this up and you may earn favour in the eyes of our mother, to redeem yourself if nothing else. You have the Jarrin Root?"

"Babbette brought it this morning," Astrid replied, handing over a small black pouch. "Are you ready, gourmet?"

"Of course not. I hardly look the part of a chef now, do I?"

"Radiant Raiments will take care of that I am sure."

"Quite. She turned to leave, slipping the pouch of Jarrin Root into her pocket, along with the slip of paper that would grant her access to Castle Dour the following night.

* * *

><p><em> She appeared to be in a plain room, with little in the way of furnishing but for two chairs, a desk and a metronome, ticking away to one side. It must be one of the dreams, she told herself, although she couldn't quite remember what was so important about these dreams.<em>

"_You made it!" someone shouted. It was a jovial, accented voice. "I almost thought you wouldn't." A man, dressed in hideously bright colours and beaming fit to burst stepped seemingly from nowhere and settled himself in the chair across from Iona. _

"_I quite wish I hadn't," she replied, folding her arms across her chest. Her fingers drummed against her sleeve, eyes narrowed above her cowl._

"_Well of course you do! You're the listener now, aren't you? Even in your dreams it seems. You've been infected by that little worm of memory, burrowing down where it doesn't belong."_

"_Who are you?"_

"_I'm you of course! Hadn't you figured that out yet? Well that is to say, I'm as much you as the you you are right now, understand?"_

"_Speak more sense or I shall remove your tongue!" she shouted, jumping to her feet and slamming a hand onto the desk._

"_With what?" he asked, innocently. Iona very suddenly became aware of just how cold it was in the room. Looking down, she realised that her blade and armour, had disappeared, leaving her cold and vulnerable. She jumped back, eyes narrowed, but no sooner had she done so than was the white leather back in place, the Blade of Woe once more clipped to her belt. _

"_You'll leave off my tongue," he laughed. "That is, unless you want me to use your intestines as a skipping rope. I've done that before… messy business." He was silent for a while and Iona cautiously resettled herself upon the chair, her hand never straying far from the hilt of her dagger._

"_Let me put it plainly. You've appeased deadra all over the place girl, but you're doing it wrong."_

"_I have no idea what you're talking about," she said, "Can I leave?"_

"_I wonder what your eyes would taste like if I spread them on toast?"_

"_Fine. Get on with it."_

"_The deadra aren't the ones you should concern yourself with – most of them, they're just out to get you. They only challenge you because they have to, because that's the rules."_

"_What rules?"_

"_THE rules, the only rules, the rules that matter." He waved this aside as though it was a moot point. "You went out of your way to appease Hircine, girl, and that's the closest you went to being right. You have to appease them, without actually appeasing them."_

She awoke in a cold sweat, her hair plastered to her forehead, panting in an attempt to regain her breath. Her room at the Winking Skeever seemed small, oppressive and she needed air. She donned her mask and hood (she never took her armour off, not trusting in the security of any building) and headed through her window, not wanting the clientele downstairs to talk any more than was necessary about their strange visitor of the night.

There was a decided calm to all the major cities at night, and this was the time she enjoyed best, with the moon shining down upon the streets, creating dark shadows and easy hiding spaces. She glanced up and down the street and finding it deserted, moved through the night until she was at the door to Radiant Raiments. She knelt down, extracting her picks from the lining of her cloak, and began to work, her fingers dancing as though they had been doing this for years, not mere months.

After a few minutes, the lock clicked and with an easy push the door swung open. She stepped inside and headed instantly to a dusty corner, leaving mere seconds later with the tunic and hat of a chef tucked under one arm. She closed the door behind her and headed back to the Skeever, the memory of that night's dream already fading away.

* * *

><p>Lydia was nearly dead on her feet when she dragged herself back into Breezehome. The official search had been called off long ago, an announcement made about the passing of the Dragonborn, a nation in mourning, but still she couldn't bring herself to give up. She could have stopped and lived an easy life for many years to come (Iona had left her both Breezehome and Vlindrel Hall, not to mention she was the only person other than Iona herself with a key to the underground mansion), but she just couldn't believe Iona was actually dead.<p>

The Blades had given up long ago. Delphine had even expressed astonishment that it had taken so long, and Esbern had told her in an unsettling calm and collected voice that in the entire history of the Blades, Iona had been the longest lived Dohvakiin who actively fought dragons.

And eventually, even the Companions had admitted defeat, leaving only the housecarls, who dropped away from the search one by one, returning to houses that were now their own and the large fortunes contained within.

Which left only Lydia, and a faint hope even she was beginning to lose faith in. Wood elves were not common in Skyrim, and she had followed every lead that seemed even vaguely promising, turned over every rock and stone but it had all yielded nothing. The house was cold and it took her a little while to light the fire. When finally some semblance of heat was coming from the hearth, she fell back into a chair and put her face in her hands.

She jumped at a knock on the door, head snapping up. Sighing, she stood and slid the bolt away to see who was calling at such a gods forsaken hour of the morning. A courier, of course. He was shivering in the rain and held out a small roll of parchment. Lydia took it and flicked a Septim his way, closing the door as she unrolled the parchment.

Another sighting, just as unlikely as the last. At least, this was the thought that crossed her mind until she read the details.

_Wood elf. Height matches description. Female. Cowled, hodded. White leather, red cloth. Asleep between Falkreath and Solitude. Dreaming._

Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered Iona's fears before they headed away to the hunting grounds – the assassin in white leather, and the possibility that this was her own future. The letter didn't say where the elf had gone from here, but this was a start, and one which was a damnsight more promising than anything else she had seen for a long time. She headed to the trapdoor and descended, donning her gauntlets as she did so. She stifled a yawn as she turned to the door which would take her to Proudspire Manor and Solitude.

* * *

><p>"<em>That makes no sense." She started to see that she was back in the dream, back exactly where she had left off.<em>

"_It does! Pass their tests in the technical sense, but find your own way around them. They want you to be this. Others don't"_

"_So what do you want?"_

"_Me? I want a new skipping rope, but that's beside the point." He leant back, propping his feet upon the table between them. "The only real question is, what do you want?"_

"_I don't…"_

"_You want knowledge. Or at least, you did before that little maggot crawled up your brainstem. I'd wager there's still something worth salvaging in that sack you call a head."_

"_Are you done insulting me?"_

"_No, I don't think so." He was laughing at her, his lips curled in a self-satisfactory smile. "I think you're off again though. Don't do anything too stupid."_

Iona moved straight out of bed and splashed her face with cold water. This was it. Today was the day on which everything rested. Win or lose, rise or fail, it would be decided today in Castle Dour.

When the evening came, she was ready. She wore her armour beneath the chefs tunic, having deliberately snatched the less revealing male option from the store the previous night. She had stitched a thin white veil to the brim of her hat that morning, and if anyone asked, she could simply claim to be making an effort to maintain her anonymity, which was of course the truth.

As darkness began to fall, she headed to Castle Dour. Commander Maro glanced at her writ of passage and then at her chefs attire before waving her in. Smiling a little, she headed to the kitchen, where the Redguard chef was waiting. The fool would probably have believed anything Iona had said, she thought, dictating the ingredients to a recipe the idiot had probably made a dozen times. Finally, when the time came for the secret ingredient, Iona dropped in the Jarrin Root. Everything was ready.

"I'll carry the tureen, you just go ahead and be… well brilliant," the girl gushed (Iona had already forgotten her name), taking the lead, soup in hand. The kill was close now, Iona could feel it. The blood in her veins seemed to be rushing, her heart beating unusually fast. She almost held her breath as Titus Meade, an insufferable fool of an emperor, took the first sip.

Jarrin Root has many wonderful properties, not the least of which was the way in which it slowly paralysed every muscle in the body. She watched as the emperor began to choke, began to try draw breath into lungs that would not move, finally collapsing into his unfinished soup.

Chaos, naturally, was the only thing that could follow. Iona had already spotted the door and was outside before anyone even realised quite what was wrong. The bridge was unguarded as Astrid had promised, but something didn't seem right.

The sharp _shnk_ of steel as it left the scabbard, straight ahead. Looking up, she saw Commander Maro's crowing face peering down at her. Two figures, brandishing both swords and torches ran from the tower towards her. "That man," Maro said leaning against the stone of the tower top, "Was by far the most insufferable decoy the emperor has ever employed. I must admit, I am glad he's dead… more so that you killed him though. You seem surprised?" Iona couldn't say how he knew this – the veil did, after all, cover her face in its entirety, but she let him drone on. The longer he spoke, the longer she had to find a way out of the trap she had found waiting for her. "Well so was I when a member of your… 'family', came to me with the plan. This is our deal – an exchange. We get you, and the Brotherhood gets to continue its pitiful existence. Personally, I think a better idea would be for me to kill you, and then butcher all of your little friends."

"Have fun trying," she shrugged. "I've heard assassins can put up a bit of a fight."

"Your sanctuary burns as you speak!" he shouted. "You killed my son, assassin. All of you! Kill her, and make sure there's nothing left to bury."

Iona reached into the pocket of her tunic, through the hole she had torn earlier and withdrew the long blade at her hip. Even once the Penitus Occulatus ahead of her threw their torches to one side, the blade seemed to gleam wickedly in light that just wasn't there. "Baptised in blood, and in fear," Iona whispered, launching into the attack.


	10. Sheogorath, Prince of Madness

**Short again, but I quite like this one :) thanks for reviews on the last couple of chapters, hope this answers any questions xx**

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><p><em>Sheogorath is the infamous Prince of Madness, whose motives are unknowable.<em>

When she finally stumbled onto the streets of Solitude, Iona was wounded. Her hand was pressed firmly against a long, jagged cut on her side, blood dripping down her thigh as she staggered against the city wall. The alarm was up in earnest now, and she knew returning to the inn was no longer an option; she had to get out of the city as soon as possible.

If she could make it to the sanctuary, Babette would have something that would help with the pain, ease the healing, but the sanctuary was a full days travel away, and she wasn't sure she could make it that far unaided, and an injured women would draw too much attention travelling publically.

Cursing, she stripped herself of the Chefs tunic and hat, folding her hood up to cover her hair and ears. The gash in her armour was already beginning to knit itself closed, which would contain some of the bleeding, but she kept her hand pressed against it none the less.

She knew there was one place she could go – a place shrouded with cobwebs within her mind, calling to her as though part of another, distant life. Yet she knew she had to go, had to survive for the Glory of the Dread Father and her love of the Night Mother. She stayed in the shadows wherever possible, stopping to allow guards or curious citizens pass before making her way on. After what seemed like an eternity, she finally reached Proudspire Manor.

Jardis would be upstairs, she thought. She rarely came downstairs, rarely used the forge or the various alters stored in the basement. Iona had somehow never got out of the habit of carrying the keys of her life before the Brotherhood, and she fitted the correct one with next to no thought, slipping inside and closing the door slowly behind herself, making as little sound as possible. Slowly, leaning heavily against the wall now, she stumbled over to a trapdoor, fumbling with her keys, her fingers beginning to feel a little numb, her vision blurring. The last thing she saw before she passed out was the trapdoor opening before her.

"_You really didn't understand when I said nothing stupid, did you?" He sighed, moving his feet from the desk, drumming his fingers on the top of a cane she was sure he had not held until that moment._

"_I did only what was needed…"_

"_For the Glory of the Dread Father and the Love of the Night Mother, yes, yes I know your little mantra girl. Blood and fear, and all that phooey." He sighed. "You're playing a dangerous game! Why Boethiah nearly put her blessing on you for that – would have done, if that had been the emperor – and that would have been a kiss goodnight."_

"_You seem to be making a little more sense now, at least."_

"_Yes… I do that, sometimes." He frowned, looking at something just past Iona's shoulder. She looked back, but could see nothing but the plain stone wall._

"_What about you?" she said at last. "What is your test?"_

"_Ahh, so the mighty listener has finally recognised her company? The cobwebs beginning to clear a little up here?" He leant forward, tapping an index finger against his temple. "It's about time really." He sat back very suddenly and slapped his knee. "I don't have a test. "_

"_You… don't?"_

"_Nope. Consider me appeased." He held up his hands as though in defeat, then twirled his staff once and rose to his feet._

"_Why?"_

"_Because I know you, better than those up top would like to think they do. It's like I said, I'm as much you as you are, the only thing that needs to happen for this to be just right is for you to be a little bit more you."_

"_You're not making sense again."_

"_I think I'm making perfect sense… but then I always think I'm making perfect sense, so perhaps I'm not the best judge. You that's here and you that's out there are different now, as different as milk and cheese. I mean, just look at you!" Iona glanced down and realised she no longer wore the white leather of the assassin. Instead, the scaled armour she had worn in the hunting grounds covered her thin (dangerously so as of late) form. "I'd give you answers," he said as she looked back up, "But frankly that'd make things boring."_

"_You know?" Iona asked._

"_Aye, course I know. "We all do."_

"_Hircine…"_

"_Lied." He shrugged. "He likes games, and this is certainly an interesting game."_

"_But…"_

"_And there you go again!" he exclaimed. "Remember, try not to do anything stupid," he shouted, as the room began to dissolve, small butterflies with blue and purple wings flying past her, blinding her. "Sheogorath may be appeased, but that won't make the rest of 'em any easier."_

* * *

><p>Vilkas splashed water on his face and glanced up at himself in the scratched and discoloured mirror that hung above his basin. He was tired, and it showed, but he was used to it. Sleep had not come easily since Farkas' death and the events that had surrounded it, and even before then the beastblood had prevented him from ever being truly rested. The dreams had begun around that time, and had grown in detail and regularity, always with her face.<p>

Iona, Dragonborn, and whoever else she was. The assassin in his dreams. Sighing, he turned and donned his armour, taking his sword from its stand by the side of his bed. Training was discipline, and it was the only thing holding him together. That had been Farkas' job, before, and now it was something he had to accomplish by himself. Kodlak helped of course, or tried to help, but the old man's mind was turned towards the wolf, and a way to remove them of its control.

The cold night air was a relief, and the rain stinging his cheeks not entirely unwelcome. He stood for a moment, silent in the garden, before moving to draw his weapon. He stopped, however, when he heard footsteps racing up the hill to Jorrvaskr, his hearing enhanced by the blood of the beast running through him. He moved around the hall to intercept their visitor and was almost bowled over by Lydia.

"Vilkas!" she gasped, stepping back and grabbing his arm, "You have to come, now."

"Lydia calm down," he said, not following when she tried to pull him down the stairs. "What are you doing outside? You'll get soaked." So would he of course, but he didn't really care about that.

"Calm down!" Lydia squeaked. "Vilkas, I found her." It took a moment for his sluggish, sleep deprived brain to work out exactly what the housecarl meant, and exactly who 'she' could only be.

"Where is she?" he said at last.

"This way." Lydia turned and ran down the stairs and he followed. They ran through the deserted streets, only stopping so Lydia could unlock the door to Breezehome with shaking hands. The ashes of a fire still burnt slightly in the hearth, but Lydia paid no attention to her surroundings, heading straight for a small, unobtrusive trapdoor.

Lydia lead him through the manor, round corners and through twisting corridors. She finally stopped beside a large cabinet and turned to him. "She's… different," she said at last.

"Different how?" he asked cautiously.

"Well… she's been through a lot over the past few years and I think… I think she might have snapped. She keeps whispering things. Things about the Dark Brotherhood."

"The Brotherhood?" Vilkas' blood ran like ice through his veins, his dreams barrelling down on him, full force.

"And about you. That's why I came to find you. She won't talk to me, but I think she might to you. She keeps asking for you."

"I'll see her," he said after a moment, his mind clouded with visions of the assassin in white, with remorseless eyes and blind fervour. Lydia turned and opened the cabinet. It was empty, and for a moment Vilkas was non-plussed, until she pushed the fake back to one side, revealing a stone staircase.

"I've had some time to look around this place while Iona was… away," Lydia said. "I only found this bit a couple of weeks ago, actually." Finally, they came to a steel door and Lydia slid the heavy bolt out and heaved it open. The room was bright and warm, a large fire roaring in the hearth, a figure lying curled into a ball before it.

A figure in white. She turned at the sound of the door, her unmasked face showing a mixture of fear, caution and hope. As the door clanged shut behind him and Lydia, Vilkas took a hesitant step forward, allowing the light from the fire to fall upon his face.

"Vilkas!" Iona cried, crawling towards him, one hand pressed against her side. "I told Cicero you would come, but he just wouldn't listen, wouldn't accept that his role was nearly over, no. I told him my keeper wouldn't leave me, wouldn't abandon me. You'd never do that to me, would you? Tell me you'd never do that to me?" She had clawed her way up the wall with one hand, her eyes wide as she babbled. She reached out to him and stumbled forwards, catching herself on the table. She stopped for a second and looked up, her eyes narrowed in confusion. "Tick, tick," she whispered. "Like a clock but… not a clock."

"Iona…" he said slowly, trying to keep his tone as level as possible.

"Iona, Listener, first! First listener, first life, you hear me!" she was shouting at the ceiling, flecks of spit flying from her mouth. "I was here first! I didn't ask for this. I wanted the void, I wanted nothing and you gave me this mess!" Vilkas glanced at Lydia, who had hung back in the shadows, and saw the pain on her face. She had known Iona better than anyone, he knew.

"Dragons," she muttered. "Dragons whispering in my head, always whispering, never giving me peace." She had crouched down now, her hand finally leaving her side. The white armour was stained with blood, her hand covered with it. She wove her fingers into her hair and knelt by the table. "Tick, tick, tick. Counting time, but not _time_. Dragons. Time. Companion?" She looked up at him, betrayal and confusion warring for prominence in her face. "You left us," she said finally. "Joined them. Became their _dog_." She spat the last word at him and recoiled as he moved a step closer.

"But you wrote the tomes," she whispered, turning her head away. "You wrote the tomes, you told them what they needed to hear. Silence dies. Darkness Rises. Blood and Fear. Sins of the unworthy. My blade… YOU STOLE IT!" she was glaring at Lydia now, murder in her eyes. "You took it from me, what is my own flesh and blood."

"The Blade of Woe," Vilkas whispered. Both Lydia's and Iona's attention snapped to him.

"You remember it?" Iona asked, once again forcing herself to her feet. Now it was hope he saw in her, a desperate need for familiarity.

"The sins of the unworthy," he said bitterly, "Baptised in blood and in fear."

"Yes," she sighed, sagging against the table, eyes closed as in ecstasy. "Forged during the night of our Mother, for the glory of…"

"…of the Dread Father," Vilkas completed.

"My keeper," she whispered, tears rolling silently down her cheeks. "Returned to aid with the work of the Night Mother, to finish the keeping tomes, to serve his listener." There was silence as Iona stared raptly at Vilkas for a moment.

Finally, he spoke. "No," he said simply.

"No?" she looked as though he had slapped her, as though he had punched her to the gut. She staggered back against the wall, eyes darting from side to side as though searching for an escape. "You will not serve the Dread Father as you once did?"

"That wasn't me," he said firmly. "That was someone else, long ago, and he never served the Night Mother."

"He was loyal!" she screeched. "Loyal as any had ever been!"

"But never to her, never to your Dread Father." He took a step forward and she shrank back, crouching into a ball.

"He was loyal," she mumbled. "Loyal as I."

"He was loyal _to her_, but not 'cause she was his listener."

"Then why? What could inspire loyalty other than that?" She was looking at him over her arm, as though trying to hide her face from him.

"Mara, Iona," he sighed. "You really that dense?"

"Tick, tick, tick," she said again, face buried in her knees. "Tick, tick tick."


	11. Stendarr and Azura, of Dusk and Dawn

**I think this part of the story has simply demanded shorter chapters for various reasons, but I hope to get them back up to length for the next one :) Hooray for plot developments xx**

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><p><em>Azura<em>_ is the Daedric prince whose sphere is dusk and dawn, the magic in-between realms of twilight. Azura is always depicted as a female, and is also known as "Mother of the Rose," "Queen of the Night Sky," and the Anticipation of Sotha Sil._

_Stendarr is the God of Righteous Might and Merciful Forbearance. He is the inspiration of magistrates and rulers, the patron of the __Imperial Legions__ and the comfort of the law-abiding citizen. He is said to have accompanied __Tiber Septim__ in his later years. _

"Tick, tick, tick," she whispered to herself as Lydia and Vilkas turned away from her, heading from the door. She heard the key click as it turned in the lock, and the sound of retreating footsteps. She paused. She had not heard the bolt, had not heard it crash into the stone as it was slid into place. She licked her drip lips and moved slowly to the door, running her fingers over the lock.

"My keeper," she whispered, resting her head against the steel. "I'll show you the light." She reached into her boot, drawing out her picks and sliding them into the keyhole and holding her breath so as to hear the tumblers move. Her side hurt, but now that the armour had sealed the pressure was keeping it from bleeding out, and she could move slowly, could get away if she remain unseen.

After a few tense moments, the lock clicked once more and Iona eased the door open. The darkness of the corridor was nothing that worried her as she moved slowly upwards into the manor. She could hear voices talking not too far away as she eased out of the hidden door, but they were coming away from the direction she wanted to head. Turning from them, she moved through the maze to the room of doors, heading up into Breezehome, through into Whiterun and finally into wild Skyrim countryside. She moved slowly to the cart sitting by the gate and spoke briefly to the driver, giving him twenty Septims for speedy travel to Falkreath.

She stopped him an hour before they reached their destination and hurried through the forest to the black door, leaving him to finish the journey alone. A short distance away, she came across the survivors; Nazir and Babette pulling Festus' corpse down from the tree to which it had been pinned. She limped into view, not as silent as usual, her reactions slow and her feet dragging. Her side ached and her vision was dark, and she had to lean against the trees for support. Nazir spotted her first, right after he set Festus on the ground.

"You!" he hissed, reaching for his sword. "You come to finish us off have you?" Iona merely blinked, unable to process quite what he was saying, unable to hear properly through ears that felt clogged up.

"NO!" Cicero leapt, seemingly from nowhere to stand between the Redguard and the listener. "No no no," he said again. "Not the listener, never the listener."

"Then who?" Nazir asked the little man, "Who else could have sold us out to the Penitus Occulatus?"

"Astrid," Iona mumbled. "Astrid. Tried to have me killed. Succeeded, I think." The pain in her side was growing. The cut hadn't been that deep had it? She couldn't remember. Her head felt light.

_Tick, tick, tick._ Why had she come back here? She'd felt she had to, needed her… her what? Family? The word didn't sit right, didn't taste right to her. It made her feel a little sick.

But this was her family, wasn't it? She was their listener, their only listener? The conduit to the Night Mother for the glory of… for the glory of what? Of Sithis? Of the Void?"

"Blood and fear," she whispered. "Tick, tick, tick." The words seemed empty of the meaning they had possessed. What had that meaning been? Surely there had been something to it. She clenched her hand, wanting to feel the cold handle of her blade, but knowing it was many miles away.

"Astrid?" Babette asked, disbelief clear in her voice. "You have proof of this."

"No." The she hesitated, her eyes taking on the faraway look that was familiar to anyone who had seen her commune with the Night Mother. "Yes," she said, pushing past Cicero, towards the broken door to what had once been the Falkreath sanctuary.

"She's injured," she heard Nazir say as she entered the cave. "Maybe a head wound too?"

"Listen to the listener," Cicero hissed at them. "Follow, follow, follow." Iona was already turning into Astrid's chambers, past burnt bookcases, and the contorted corpse of a great wolf. A dry, rasping cough came to her from somewhere out of sight, and she turned into what had been the bedroom and stopped dead.

The Black Sacrament lay before her, a circle of candles, nightshade and human flesh. Astrid's flesh, burnt and bloodied as she lay prostrate in the centre of the circle. As she saw Iona she let out a sob and a silver knife fell from her hand. The runes and markings carved with a shaky hand into her already damaged skin told them what she had been using it for. "Astrid…" Iona began.

"No, please," the dying woman interrupted. I have much to say, and not enough time. She coughed, a deep rattling cough that spoke of the damage within her body, easily equal to that on the outside. "I'm sorry, so sorry. All of this… this is all my fault. The Penitus Occulatus… Maro said if I gave them you he would leave the Dark Brotherhood alone… forever. By Sithis I was stupid. You were the best of us, and I nearly killed you, like I killed everyone else."

"I pity you, Astrid," Iona said after a moment, sliding down to the ground. It was easier to sit than to stand, and she could better hear Astrid from there.

"No. I don't deserve pity. I deserve whatever fate the Dread Lord has in store. I betrayed you, and now Maro has betrayed me. I just wanted things to go back… back to the way they were."

"There is no Dread Lord," Iona said bluntly. "There is no void. For so long, the Dark Brotherhood worshipped the nothing, only the nothing isn't there."

"What… what are you saying?" Astrid coughed again, her whole body shaking with the force of it. "I have prayed to the Night Mother, and she has sent you to me. Don't you see? I am the Black Sacrament."

"An empty prayer to a deluded woman. If there was a void, Astrid, I would have remained there when I died the first time. I'm surprised it took me so long to realise it." _Tick, tick, tick._ "I needed help to see it."

"Then… then what happens now?" she sobbed. "If there is no void, no Dread Father…"

"The same will happen to you as did to me. You will reborn, given a second chance."

"A second… chance?" Her words came slower now, her breathing even more laborious.

"Don't mess it up. The way I did." Iona laughed bitterly and rested her head against the still warm stone behind her, looking up to the ceiling. "The Night Mother was a fool," she sighed. "A fool who has drawn others into her delusions even in death – a creature of this world, nothing more."

"And what of the others?" Astrid gasped. "The Brotherhood has been numerous."

"I don't know. Maybe all of them were reborn… maybe only some. But you will be Astrid. There's greatness in you. I see it, and I think someone else will have seen it too; there's more to you than just the dark, more than just the lust for the kill."

"Will… will you end it then?" she gasped.

Iona nodded and reached for the silver dagger. Leaning down, she kissed Astrid's forehead as the knife slid across her throat. Astrid died without a whimper, but instead with a sigh of _Thank you_.

She stood, holding the little knife as she turned to face the others. She didn't feel like an assassin anymore. She felt lost, out of her depth and alone, surrounded by very dangerous people. Her head was pounding, and she whispered her mantra again. "Tick, tick tick."

"Blasphemy!" Cicero was shouting. "You cannot be the listener! Blasphemy!"

"Stand aside now," she said, more from exhaustion than genuine mercy, "And I will spare your life." Cicero snarled, reaching for his weapon. Iona took a deep breath, feeling the power build up in her chest, feeling the fire growing as Nazir and Babette also prepared to attack.

"YOR TOOR SHUL!" she Shouted, for the first time in far too many months. She felt a brief pang as they died, but knew it was for the best. The Brotherhood could not continue, she would not allow it to go on.

For she was Dragonborn, Archmage and Companion, and this was her duty. "Stendarr is appeased, child," the familiar voice whispered to her, and she had to bite her lip to stop herself from crying. She had appeased Stendarr, another Divine. Perhaps she was not a lost cause after all. Moving unsteadily, she stumbled through the ruins of the sanctuary to the main hall. The Night Mother's metal sarcophagus lay on its side by the water, still attached to the ropes that had been used to drag it out (at Cicero's insistence she could well imagine). She heaved the doors open and held her breath, but no mysterious voice hissed in her ear.

"YOL!" she shouted, the single word enough. As the fire caught, she took a step back, watching as the Night Mother burnt. An unearthly scream echoed in her head, but she did not react, did not run. She stayed and watched until the corpse was merely ash, at which point she shut the coffin once more, and pushed it into the water with her Voice.

With the destruction of the Night Mother, her armour was beginning to unravel, the white leather seeming to melt, becoming red blood that dripped down her skin. As she stood there, near naked in the empty sanctuary, a bright light appeared before her.

"Do not fear, child, it is I." The voice was that she had heard in her dreams, the one that had guided her along the path until she had so disastrously fallen to the wayside. "Come, my Nerevarine, and know that Azura is appeased, has always been appeased." Now Iona sobbed, more memories of a life that was not her own flooding into her. A dunmer warrior, saviour of Morrowind and champion of Azura, the elf who fought Dagoth Ur himself beneath Red Mountain, and turned to drink to escape this life this earned him.

Unlike the last time, these memories did not assault her, did not overtake her own, but instead seemed to slot in place, like pieces of a puzzle. There were still gaps, still areas to be filled in, but she was getting there.

"What do I have to do?" she managed to say at last, looking up at the beautiful form of Azura before her. "My powers?"

"I cannot return your powers to you, Nerevar," Azura said, shaking her head. "The terms of your trial are clear, and you may not use them again until the final test."

"The final…"

"Shh." Azura raised a hand. "Do not ask, for I cannot tell. But I will give you this gift, a reminder of the lives you have lived, the people you have been, and the woman you are today."

"I am nothing but a murderer," Iona said bitterly, looking away from what Azura was offering to her.

"You are far, far more than that," the deadric prince whispered to her. And then the light was gone, and there was a faint tinkling as her gift hit the ground. Bending down, Iona picked up a silver ring, decorated with an entwined moon and star in silver and gold respectively. Her knowledge of such things was vague at best, but she had heard Aranea mention this once before. She slid the ring onto her finger and stared at it for a minute, as though expecting something to happen. It did not.

She clenched her fist, and the Ring of Moon and Star shone briefly in the dark.


	12. Peryite, The Taskmaster

**I didn't know the rift housecarl was called Iona until just now :L It made me giggle.**

**And no reviews on the last chapter? Harsh guys :p**

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><p><em>Peryite, also known as the Taskmaster, is the Daedric Prince whose sphere is the ordering of the lowest orders of Oblivion. Some accounts also claim his sphere is pestilence. Peryite's statue depicts a four legged dragon, and is ostensibly concerned with ensuring all things are accounted for, neat, tidy and in their right order.<em>

Iona headed through the ruins to what had once been her room, reaching under the bed and drawing out the box that had contained the black sacrament armour for so long. It opened easily, the magic that had kept it closed breaking with that of the blade of woe – that of the Night Mother. Inside was the scale armour, as she had left it the day she joined the Falkreath sanctuary. Shivering a little in the empty caverns, she put it on, also taking the Nightingale Blade from a scorched stand by one wall. The enchanted blade was undamaged, however, so she fixed it to her belt and headed out of the cave, towards Falkreath.

She paid the same driver to take her to Markarth, knowing it was unlikely that anyone who could recognise her would be walking the streets, but fell unconscious before they reached the city walls. When she awoke, she was lying in the Temple of Dibella, her side covered in dried potion. The green tinge to the solid film told her that a cure disease potion had been used at some point, meaning the wound must have become infected. Idly, she wondered how long she'd been asleep.

She sat up, watching as flakes of the greenish film fell to the floor. Her armour was laid out on the other side of the room, along with some plain clothes. She put these on and took the carefully folded armour under one arm. The small pouch she had been wearing at her hip was also there, so on her way out she spoke with one of the Priestess, and donated a hundred Septims.

It was only when she was outside that she realised she didn't have anywhere to go. She couldn't go back to the Companions, not with Vilkas there. Even thinking about him was enough to stir the assassin within, and now that she finally seemed to have a handle upon herself this was the last thing she wanted. This meant she couldn't return to Winterhold either, for Lydia would certainly hear of that and besides, she assumed they would have a new Arch Mage by now, and would know that their previous leader had been the Dragonborn – Mirabelle would have told them when her successor was elected.

That left Riften. She wondered if a new Guildmaster had been chosen for a moment, and then dismissed the fact. Karliah would know she was alive, for she was living in Nightingale Hall, and while she did not talk with Nocturnal often, she would have been contacted for something as huge as the death of a Nightingale.

The more Iona thought about it, the more she liked the idea of relocating to Riften as a permanent measure. There was anonymity in the guild, a sense of family, and no questions asked. She would head first, then, to the Twilight Sepulchre, from where she could move directly to Nightingale Hall and reclaim the armour that was her gift from the goddess.

_Goddess_. One more immortal being to appease, although how she was supposed to appease a deadra she was already sworn to through the entirety of her life and a large chunk of the afterlife she did not know. Shaking her head slightly, she turned towards the city gates. Her side twinged a little, but it was an old wound now, looking like one long healed.

It was an uneventful journey to the Sepulchre, and she met with nothing more sinister than a Sabrecat. The memories swirling in her mind made the fighting easy – the quick, sharp moves of an assassin mixed with the sold, practised moves of a warrior – and the beast died quickly. She did not linger in the Sepulchre, but headed straight through the portal to Nightingale Hall.

It was much changed since her last visit, the rotten furniture replaced with richer items no doubt paid for by Karliah's work in Riften and the other cities of the hold. Karliah was clearly out, for Iona met no one as she headed towards the armour stones. Stripping of the Dragon Scales and stowing them in one of the many packs around the hall, she prayed briefly before the centre stone and felt the familiar rush of the nightingale armour form around her body. She raised the hood and adjusted the position of the cowl slightly before turning from the stones and heading to the exit. Tiredness weighed down on her as she made her way down to the city.

As the city walls came into view, she started to relax a little, wishing she had something to show the guild for her months of absence. She stopped dead, however, when she heard something roar and saw a jet of flames from te other side of the city.

_Dragon._

She was running before she even knew what she was doing, racing about the city. She stopped, clutching her still tender side and panting for breath, just out of sight of the city guards.

Not just a dragon. There were three, two tethered down with thick cords of dark leather, the third breaking free as she watched. Even as she stood there dithering, one of the guards was caught by the beasts tail and sent flying, crashing into the wall. For a brief moment, Iona slipped into a vision, although this time it was different to the others. This time she saw one of her own memories, watched again as the dragon killed Farkas. Before the vision had ended her hand was upon her blade, drawing it out as she ran forward. Others from the city had come to aid in trying to kill and restrain the dragon once more – she spotted Bryjolf, Saphir and Rune amongst others.

The dragon – an elder dragon, she was sure of it – was beginning to stretch its wings, preparing to lift itself into the air, preparing to escape… or to fight.

Either way, Iona thought, that wasn't something she was going to let it do. The shout built in her chest, and she unleashed it when she could no longer contain the power. "JOOR ZAH FRUL!" The dragon screeched, struck by mortality, snapping wildly at anyone within reach. People were fighting, but also looking to see who had shouted – "Where's the Dragonborn?" They were shouting, for no one else knew the Dragonrend shout. Only Brynjolf's eyes lingered on Iona longer than might be considered usual in the circumstances.

She roared as she charged, the memories of the Dunmer fighter taking over her once more, her arms moving with the fluidity of far more practise than she had ever done herself. The dragon began to concentrate upon her, recognising her Voice, roaring his displeasure. The other two dragons Shouted from where they had been pinned down, and Iona saw Mjoll run to one of them, leaping upon its back and running up its neck, plunging her sword into its eye.

Had Iona not been there, the thing would just have died, but before everyone's eyes the scales upon the dragon's back began to burn, slowly flying up into the air as she took the soul.

She didn't see the other pinned dragon die, but she felt the soul. This took only a matter of seconds, but already the elder dragon was beginning to break free of dragonrend's hold. "JOOR!" she Shouted once more, renewing the Shout and pinning the beast down. Looking up, Iona saw Mjoll upon the creature's back, and only just had time to shout a warning before it bucked and she lost her footing, sliding to the ground and rolling away, thankfully unhurt. Clambering on top of a restrained dragon was one thing, climbing on top of one pinned down by dragon rend was a little more difficult as there was more flexibility, more movement allowed. Essentially, the creature was pinned down by the realisation of its own mortality, and could move if it conquered that. Iona had never seen a beast that strong, however, not even Alduin himself. She ducked as the dragon bit at her, rolling under its head and turning, thrusting her sword up. The thing roared, but the blow wasn't a fatal one, piercing only the lower jaw. She yanked her sword free and scrambled away, eyes fixed on the dragon's eyes. It was dying, she was certain, weakened by blood loss and despairing in the realisation that it would not win.

"TIID KLO UL!" she Shouted, time slowing around her. She ran forward and raised her sword, plunging it down into the Dragon's eye before it could react. Its dying cry was distorted by the time difference, but still she felt a strange, keening sadness for the creature before her, its life so brutally snuffed out.

_An orc – just a chef, no one threatening, no one who'd ever done anything wrong in his life, just in the wrong place at the wrong time – killed easily by a blade to the back. A young soldier, eager in his duties, ready to serve and loyal, killed as a distraction and framed as a traitor._

"Tick, tick, tick," Iona whispered to herself as time re-righted itself around her and the dragon's soul sped towards her. _Tick, tick, tick._

"Dragonborn," someone whispered, awe in their voice. Then the cheering started. Iona blinked, almost surprised to find herself surrounded by so many people. Panic rose in her and she pushed them aside, forced her way roughly through their ranks and into Riften, the shadowcloak of Nocturnal forming around her once she was inside, hiding her from their sight. She ran through the city, to the secret entrance to the Cistern and to the bed she called her own, hidden from sight by a thin screen. She lowered her hood and pulled off the cowl, needing to breath, throwing them down the side of the bed.

"This not the only gig you hide your face for lass?" Brynjolf asked, walking into sight and leaning casually against the wall.

"I guess not," she said, shrugging.

"Any particular reason you've been away so long?" Iona flinched, hearing the accusation in his voice. How many attacks had there been, she wondered, while she was away playing assassin. How many people had died because she couldn't control her memories of a centuries dead listener?

"We've had those three for about two weeks now," Brynjolf went on. "Probably could have had them another three weeks if they hadn't all woken up together."

"The other holds?" she asked, not sure if she wanted to hear the answer. How had she not seen this?

"Most of the towns have escaped attack – Falkreath, Dawnstar, but also Solitude and Markarth. We've heard of some up in Winterhold and Windhelm though, and a couple in Whiterun. The whole of Skyrim thinks you're dead lass."

"Or they did at least," she said, managing a half-hearted smile. Brynjolf nodded and left her alone behind the screen. She sighed and lay back against the pillow, staring at the damp ceiling of the cistern.

"So, looks like you've finally got a grip on something at least." She started and sat up, finding herself face to face with a dragon. It was small enough to perch on the bed post, and its proportions were slightly different to those she had fought and killed. This one was longer and thinner in the body and head, with larger wings. "Peryite," the thing said, by way of an introduction, it's voice ridiculously deep for a creature so small. "Did you have to come down here? I hate being in such a… compact form.

"What do you want?" she asked, her voice harsh.

"Oh I'm just here to deliver a message."

"So get on with it then."

"I will, I will. I, the taskmaster, am appeased." His tail flicked down against the bed post, leaving a small gouge in the wood.

"Why?"

"Because this is your task, your path in life. You're beginning to see that, so you have my blessing."

"And have I done this the right way?" she asked. There was tension in her voice and the muscles of her face as she looked at the creature, who seemed to be pondering his answer.

"I would say you have done it the way that will most appease the divines, if that is what you mean. Boethiah will be furious - she is determined to have you with us, you know."

"What does any of this even mean? Is there any point to these tests at all?"

"Well of course there's a point." Peryite thwacked his tail against the bed again, noticeably agitated.

"So what is it?"

"To see where you belong." He spoke as though his meaning was obvious, but Iona was just as clueless as before. The dragon sighed and elaborated. "There are three paths before you," he said slowly. "The first, you die without the tasks fulfilled, and the whole things starts again; new life, new tasks. This is the one everyone is trying to avoid, you see."

"And the other two?"

"Well there's the dissonance. War and governance, or assassination and shadows? These are the options available to you, and your performance in the tasks determines where you end up."

"I don't…"

"It's truly not that complicated. Will you be an aspect of Boethiah, or something more? For now, Peryite is appeased, and the trials continue. There are those among the deadra who would like to see you go on to bigger things, and those that do not. Appease them as you see fit, appease the divines as well, and all will be decided in the final trial." Iona blinked, and the tiny dragon was gone, leaving her alone once again, with the slow drip of water the only sound. Her pack lay, slightly scorched, to one side of the bed, the dragonscales just visible through a hole in the cover flap. The duties of the Dragonborn was not letting her go. Now that she was herself again it ha dreared its ugly head and reminded her who she was, and what she could do, what she had to do.

She wondered how many people there were in Skyrim who knew her identity now. Before the Kingsmoot, there had been very few – the blades, her housecarls, Jarl Balgruuf and Irileth. Most of the thieves guild would work it out soon, and the College of Winterhold would certainly know. How many of the companions had been told by now? Was there even any point in wearing the mask anymore? Surely word would come out sooner or later, and she knew that when it happened she wanted it to happen on her own terms. Sighing, she changed once more, shedding the Nightingale armour and replacing it with the dragonscales, folding the spare set and sliding it beneath the pillow.

People did a double take as she emerged into the cistern, staring at the armour and whispering to each other. _Dragonborn_. She heard the word as she approached the exit, but didn't turn around. Riften was buzzing with the news that the Dragonborn lived, but still Iona garnered only a few glances. She was wearing different armour than when they had seen the Dragonborn, no matter how impressive it was. She headed to Honeyside and let herself it, striding past a gaping housecarl towards the trapdoor.

She emerged from Hjerim moments later, trailing a dumbfounded Calder and Iona. She had never travelled anywhere particular with either of them. She had simply never really got on with Calder all that well, and Iona had only become her housecarl a few short weeks before the Kingsmoot (and Lydia had made plenty of jokes about their names in that time as it was).

Ignoring them both, Iona strode through the city and out the gates. They were pinned down at the other side of the bridge; two dragons, dead for now, but not for long.

Guards tried to stop her from getting too near the creatures, but she ignored them, drawing her sword, she moved to the head of the first dragon. She ran a hand over its brow in order to wake it before ending its life quickly, efficiently and permanently. Even before the soul had begun to move, she had done the same to the second dragon and was halfway to the stable before she felt the power of the souls embrace her.

She was looking at the horse for sale when a whinny from the other side of the paddock caught her attention. A black horse was standing there, it's pale eyes upon her. She moved across and patted the creatures neck, a strange familiarity rising in her. She looked at the saddle and her heart stopped for a moment when she saw the black hand.

"Shadowmere?" she took a step back and examined the horse. She didn't look the same, her eyes were no longer red, and her body was perhaps a little smaller than it had been. The supernatural force that had kept her going for so long had dissipated with the destruction of the night mother, leaving behind the horse as she had once been. Iona removed the saddle and purchased a new one to replace it with before mounting the horse and turning her towards Winterhold.

She didn't know if either Iona or Calder had followed her from Windhelm, but she couldn't see or hear them behind her. She rode without a break to Winterhold, and saw the sleeping dragon as soon as she rounded the bend to what was left of the city.

It was not dead, but asleep, with a number of mages sitting around it, casting calming spells from time to time. Iona barely glanced at them as she dismounted, drew her sword and killed the dragon. She stepped back and listened to the gasps and exclamations as the scales began to burn. She turned to one of the wizards, and smiled a little when she recognised Tolfdir. "Well I can't say I'm too upset to see you," he said, smiling. The calming spells were still effecting him, Iona realised, grinning a little at the glazed look on his face.

"Shall we go up to the College?" she asked, turning away from what was nearly a skeleton, briefly closing her eyes as she absorbed the dragon soul. Tolfdir lead the way as Iona and the other wizards followed him through the town and into the college. As they approached the courtyard, the calming spell began to wear off, and those around her began to mutter amongst themselves. The Arch-mage had returned and had just proved beyond all doubt that she was the Dragonborn. This they would be gossiping about for some time yet.

Tolfdir lead her straight up to the Arch-mage's chamber, where Iona was surprised to find a small gathering of College members. As they entered, Mirabelle rose from her seat, shock written across her face. "Iona," she said at last, "You're alive?"

"Just about," she said, shrugging a little. "Sorry to disappoint."

"Oh quite the opposite," Tolfdir assured her, settling himself into an empty seat. "Choosing a new Arch-mage would have been a tricky business."

"That was why we had gathered here today," Faralda explained, leaning back and appraising Iona. "You look like you've been through hell." Iona raised a hand to her face, feeling the scars from the Silver Hand claws and her fight with Hircine. She had almost forgotten they were there.

"Something like that," she agreed. Her head ached a little and she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. _Tick, tick, tick_. She said inside her head. _Tick, tick, tick_. For a brief second she could see Sheogorath grinning at her from across the table, the metronome by his side ticking away. _Tick, tick, tick_. She opened her eyes and was in the college once more. The others were chatting amongst themselves, only Tolfdir and Mirabelle looking at her.

After a few minutes, Mirabelle ushered the others out, leaving just the three of them in the room. Of all the people at the college, Mirabelle and Tolfdir were the two she knew best. They had helped her to acclimatise to her position as Arch-Mage, had made it possible for her to continue her travel across Skyrim whilst also completing the duties expected of her.

"Start at the beginning," Mirabelle said simply. So Iona did. She told them everything that had happened since the day of the Kingsmoot, without leaving any of it out. She watched as their faces changed from surprise, to distress, to horror and finally to pity.

"Can I see the ring?" Mirabelle asked at last. Iona held out her hand, the ring glinting in the pale light shining through the windows. Mirabelle stood and moved to a bookcase, pulling down one of many volumes Iona had never even glanced at. She opened it and flicked through it for a moment before finding the page she was after. "This is a copy of drawing of the ring by the Nerevarine," she explained, "The original is downstairs, and it's said he drew it shortly after his defeat of Dagoth Ur."

"Before the alcohol took over," Iona nodded. "I remember."

"Alcohol?" Tolfdir asked, slightly bemused.

"He was a drunk," Iona said shortly. "He couldn't cope with the attention of a hero, and the demands made upon him. He turned to drink, then drugs and finally died alone and without friends a long way from home." There was a moment of silence before Mirabelle spoke again.

"So you don't have any idea what Peryite was referring to?"

"Nope," Iona said, shaking her head. "Just that it's better than becoming an aspect of Boethiah." She was about to say more when some noise from outside caught her attention. There was a commotion of some sort at the gate. She pushed herself from the wall against which she had been leaning and moved to see what it was about.

_Of course,_ she thought to herself when she saw what was happening. She excused herself from Mirabelle and Tolfdir, moving into her bedroom (not that she actually slept in it much), rooting in the wardrobe until she found what she was after. She stripped her armour and replaced it with the Arch-mage's robes before heading down to the courtyard. She nodded to J'zargo as she passed, smiling a little at the gaping expression on his face, and moved to the gate.

"What seems to be the problem Faralda?" she asked, deliberately not looking at the woman standing on the other side of the gate.

"This woman claims to know you Arch-mage," Faralda explained.

"She does," Iona nodded. "I will talk with her outside the college." Faralda nodded and Iona passed through. She distinctly heard Faralda slam the gate shut behind her and smiled a little. They walked down to Winterhold in silence and when her companion tried to speak, Iona held up a hand, waiting until they had past the bones of the dragon to turn to her. She leant back against a snow covered rock and waited.


	13. Dibella of Beauty, Julianos, Kynareth

_Dibella is the Goddess of Beauty. _

_Julianos is the God of Wisdom, Logic, of literature, law, history, and contradiction._

_Kynareth is the Goddess of Air. _

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Iona asked eventually.

"Thought I'd let you start it off," Lydia replied, shrugging. "Talos knows there's plenty needs to be said."

"I burned the Night Mother," Iona blurted out, eyes fixed on her boots. "The Dark Brotherhood are all dead, and I burnt the Night Mother."

"All dead except you," Lydia pointed out.

"Yeah. All except me." She was fidgeting with the edge of her hood, determinately not looking Lydia in the eyes. "But I've got some control over it now," she went on. Tick, tick, tick. I can tell what's me and what… isn't. It was harder with her, because she looks like me. The others didn't at all, were even different races. I've been a dunmer, a nord, and I think an orc at one point, but those memories are very vague. I still haven't quite grasped the nord yet either, but I can remember being the dunmer. I think I served with Tiber Septim once as well, but I still only have one of those memories."

"When you say she looks like you, how much do you mean?"

"I thought she was," Iona said, swallowing. "She even had the same tattoos," she waved a hand to indicate her face. "No scars though. That should have been a tip off." She smiled weakly, still not looking up. "I screwed up, didn't I?"

"Just a little. You tried to assassinate the emperor, Iona. The emperor."

"You worked that out quickly."

"It wasn't that difficult."

"I'm going to find myself again," she said, raising her head at last but still not looking Lydia. "I'm going to find who _I_ am."

"Starting by showing the world you're the Dragonborn by the sound of it."

"I think half of Skyrim already knew, but I also wonder… if everyone knows who I am, maybe it will be easier for me to know who I am."

"No one knows," Lydia said at last, "Except us and Vilkas. We haven't told anyone about what you've seen in your dreams, or done in the past months."

"Why not?"

"Because you've screwed up your life enough as it is, Iona. Look, the choice is yours now, keep wandering from place to place, or choose somewhere to settle until you've either got your magic back or kicked the crap out of the person who took it from you in the first place."

"I think I may have a lead on that, actually. I need to talk to Aranea."

8888888

Sky Haven Temple was quite different than it had been the last time Iona visited. Torches burnt all over, the decaying hangings had been replaced and the stone floor carpeted. New chairs lined the stone table in the main chamber and Alduin's wall was fully lit, a true centrepiece for the new headquarters of the blades.

When she headed up to the sleeping area, she found that this too had been improved, with new beds, improved lighting and sturdier furniture. Delphine and Onmund were here, and both looked more than a little surprised to see Iona. Considering the isolation of Sky Haven, this was hardly surprising.

"We heard you were dead," Delphine said, her eyes watching Iona as the Dragonborn glanced around the room.

"That's what they're saying," Iona admitted. "Where's Aranea?"

"She's in the training yard with Esbern."

"Right, thanks." She turned to leave.

"That's it?" Delphine asked incredulously. "You're not going to tell us where you've been, why you haven't been killing dragons or anything?"

"Why don't you ask Aranea?" Iona suggested. "I think she might know more about this mess than I do." She took the steps two at a time, turning to head up to the small outdoor courtyard the blades used to practise. She walked past Argis, who raised his eyebrows at her before turning back to his training dummy, and stopped a short distance from Aranea and Esbern, who were sat at a large stone table spread with various books.

"Aranea?" she asked, settling at one of two empty chairs. "I've just got a couple of questions." Both the dunmer and Esbern had jumped at the sound of her voice, but they also looked relieved to see her.

"Dragonborn!" Esbern exclaimed. "It is good to see you."

"You too Esbern" she said, smiling briefly (Esbern had always been her favourite member of the blades), "It's been too long."

"Anything you need, Iona," Aranea said, smiling pleasantly.

"Well I spoke with Azura the other day," Iona began, watching as Aranea's eyes widened, barely hearing Esbern's slight gasp of surprise. "We had quite a short chat – she gave me this you know." She flashed the ring at Aranea, whose eyes widened in a mixture of shock and surprise. "But you know, I also learnt that the spell that took my powers was, surprise surprise, so that these trials could take place. But it was cast from the crowd at the Kingsmoot, which means an agent of some form was involved." Aranea's eyes widened as she realised what Iona was moving towards. "So just quickly – was that you?" Her face was completely straight and she barely blinked as she stared at Aranea.

"No," the dunmer replied, a little too quickly.

"Liar," Iona said simply, leaning back in her chair. "Second question. Can you reverse it?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes you do. I know, you know and I'm pretty sure it's obvious to anyone looking at you right now, so either get explaining, start reversing it or I'll do what Lydia suggested I should and beat the person responsible to a bloody pulp." _Tick, tick, tick_. She could feel the assassin bubbling beneath the surface, but she was determined to remain in control.

"But…"

"Aranea," Esbern said sharply. "Is what Iona says true?" Aranea's eyes darted between the two of them and her shoulders slumped.

"Yes," she admitted.

"Good," Iona said. "So, can you reverse it?"

"No. Azura only told me how to take them away and told me when to do it. She said it had to happen so you could be tested."

"Tested for what?" This was it, Iona knew. Finally, she would know what the end result of these trials could be, what the point truly was.

"You don't know?"

"Of course I do," Iona drawled sarcastically, "Which is why I'm asking you, you know, for kicks. Tested for what?"

"Your final resting place. She said you were the darkest being this world had known in your first life, but you pledged yourself to a thing that didn't exist. The void is a nothingness, and by pledging your soul to it you had forbidden it access to… anywhere. You were reborn, and that second life was to determine your resting place."

"So why didn't it?" Iona asked, leaning forward again, eyes still fixed upon Aranea, her heart beating three times faster than usual, seemingly in her mouth.

"Because the result was the complete opposite of your previous life. The scales didn't balance so they couldn't allow your soul to transcend."

"Meaning?"

"Iona… you were reborn as Tiber Septim." Esbern swore. Argis dropped his sword. Iona blinked and was silent, digesting the information, trying to make it work in her head, trying to fit it in with the information she already had about her other lives, looking to see if this part of the jigsaw slotted in. Even as she opened her mouth to speak, Azura's voice whispered into her ear. "Julianos is appeased, my Nerevar, know that you know."

"Well… I was going to dispute that… but Azura just confirmed it. And I appeased Julianos. So… so either I pass the tests the way the deadra want me to and become an aspect of Boethiah…"

"Or you pass them the way the divines want you to and become Talos," Aranea confirmed.

"Why are the deadra so bothered?"

"Not all of them, just those who want to see Nirn collapse. Even now, some part of your power is being used to hold Nirn together. If you become part of Boethiah, Nirn will be no more, the power of Talos will be broken, the one chosen to inherit it no longer suitable."

"So no pressure," Argis said, taking the fourth chair. He was looking at Iona as though unsure how he should react. This was no surprise – Argis was a nord, and as devout a Talos worshipper as any. To find out she was Talos… had been Talos… was not something he would take well.

"You didn't tell me this sooner because?"

"Because you had to work it out to appease Julianos," Aranea said instantly.

"Right. So who are the deadra who want the world to go to Oblivion?"

"Mehrunes Dagon."

"Screwed it up."

"Vaermina."

"I have no idea if I passed that the right way or not."

"She wanted you to remember your first life," Aranea said.

"Right, there's another one to chalk up to the screwed up board," Iona sighed. "I'm guessing Hermaeus Mora as well, because I messed that up as well."

"Hircine too."

"I did that one right at least." Iona ran a hand across her face and sighed. This list was not weighted in her favour so far. Did she even have any chance of doing this right anymore? "I think we can safely assume Boethiah is in favour of my becoming a part of her, so who does that leave?"

"Meridia, Molag Bal and Namira. I don't know about the others."

_That list is complete._ The voice seemed to echo even outdoors and they all looked around, seeking a source. There wasn't one. _The others have no interest in the destruction of Nirn, or the dominance of Oblivion. They are content to see things remain the way they are now, with the limited access they have to this… interesting world of yours._

"Who is there?" Iona asked, moving slowly to her feet, "Show yourself."

_Very well._ There was a blinding flash of golden light, and a beautiful woman with long wavy brown hair stood before them, dressed plainly in white and barefoot. "I am Dibella," she said, a warm smile on her face, "And I bring a message from the eight."

"For me?" Iona asked.

"Of course. Stay your course, do not waver. You are on the right path now, and the final trial grows ever closer."

"But how?" Iona cried. "I have to appease deadric princes of nasty, horrible things… how can I appease them and stay on the path you've set out for me? I'm still not sure I even want this. It's kind of a lot to take in!"

"Remain calm, Talos…"

"Don't call me that!" Iona snapped. _Tick, tick, tick._

"Iona, then. Remain calm. We all have faith in you."

"You shouldn't," Iona said, looking away. "I've done terrible things… not just in the past."

"The scales are balanced Iona," Dibella went on. "You've saved many, many thousands more lives than you have taken."

"But…"

"Your soul has been placed upon this Earth seven times," Dibella pressed on. "On only two of those occasions you have been involved with the Brotherhood, and in one of them you destroyed them entirely."

"I also founded them in the other," Iona mumbled.

"In your remaining lives, you have been a war hero and founder of house Indoril, you have cured the blight in Morrowind, have played a huge role in the closing of the gates of Oblivion, have saved the souls of all nords by banishing Alduin and were the hero Tiber Septim. You are a remarkable soul, Iona, and your many different lives have proven that the blind loyalty you had in your first life is not a natural thing for that soul."

"You missed one out," Argis said after a moment of silence.

"You were also an Orsimer smith, who never amounted to anything in particular, but lived a contented life with his clan."

"Sounds like the best of the bunch if you ask me," Iona huffed.

"He was your first life following your incarnation as Tiber Septim. During this time, the Divines were discussing the options for your… future. It has since become clear, however, that you are Talos and so are destined to hold his powers. Thus, the trials were devised and you were placed in such a way as to be able to complete them, first in Morrowind, then in Cyrodiil and finally here in Skyrim."

"So I didn't appease anyone in my other lives."

"You did not appease enough people in your past. Kynareth, Azura and myself remain the only beings you have appeased in both separate lifetimes, and we remain appeased to this day."

"So there are only twelve trials left?" Iona asked.

"Eleven. You cannot appease both Boethiah and Akatosh, for to appease one is to displease the other."

"I don't understand though! How am I meant to appease the deadra without doing it their way? I can't go beat them all up, can I? And why do I have to appease them anyway? What say do they have in any of this?"

"Boethiah made a claim on you in your second life, before you lead the armies against Sancre Tor, before people hailed you as Talos, and before they declared you a God amongst."

"Him," Iona said, taking a deep breath. "Declared _him_ a God amongst men. Not me. I'm still trying to maintain a distinction here." _Tick, tick, tick._ "I can't remember most of that stuff yet, and I'm hoping to keep it that way, at least for now."

"Very well. Boethiah's claim upon your soul would have been the end of it, were not for the great deeds of that particular life. Naturally, in the intervening years this has caused some friction. My time with you grows short, Dohvakiin… Talos… Iona," she said, and indeed she did seem to be fading away, her outline growing slightly blurred, the sky visible through her body. "Eleven trials remain, and the day of the final trial only draws closer."

"How am I meant to do any of this though?" Iona cried. "Help me."

"If only I could," Dibella sighed, smiling very slightly before she vanished.

8888888

Whiterun loomed before her as she climbed the hill. Dragonsreach stood higher than the rest and as she watched, a great roar echoed from the hall. The most recent dragon that had attacked Whiterun had been coaxed onto the great balcony and imprisoned, and there it now waited for the Dragonborn to come.

By now, word of the maskless Dohvakiin travelling Skyrim in armour of Dragonscales had swept through the country, and Iona felt eyes upon her from the moment she set foot in the city. The memories of the Dunmer soldier always threatened to overwhelm her at these moments, the temptation to fall to the drink as she might once have done always there at the back of her mind. _Tick, tick, tick_. Just how much of her life, she sometimes wondered, was actually her? Was any of it new, or was it all amalgamation of the lives she'd lived previously? Was _any_ of it real?

She shook her head and sighed, moving up to the castle and nodding at the guards who stood aside to let her pass. As she strode through the hall, more and more people noticed her, and silence spread out around her. She had been a fairly regular visitor to Dragonsreach at one point, both as an elf and as the Dragonborn. Now she was here as both, and people didn't seem quite sure how to react.

Balgruuf reacted as he always did when he saw Iona without her mask, and stepped forward to embrace her. "It has been too long," he said, stepping back and smiling. "We thought you long dead."

"So did I, for a little while. I was right though – that crown does suit you."

"So some say. I assume you're here to deal with our little dragon problem?"

"I can do that while I'm here, yes." They headed to the balcony, where Iona saw the black beast chained and unable to move. Its eyes moved to her instantly and it watched her as she moved closer to it, stopping just out of reach of its jaw.

"You know who I am?" she asked, looking the creature in the eye.

"I know. You are of the dove."

"And I can kill you."

"Yes, your thu'um is strong."

"Tell me," she said, crossing her arms. "Why is it so many of the dragons refuse Paarthurnax's rule? His thu'um is strong also, and he is of your kind."

"Paarthurnax hides. It does not suit our kind to cower in fear of humans. We are not your aar… your servants. Your race is daanik, Dohvakiin, it is only your hind, your wish, that it be otherwise. We will not cower on Monahven with the Nivrahiin Paarthurnax."

"And you will not submit to my thu'um either?"

"No, Dohvakiin. You are polluted by the body your soul resides in. It is weak of Paarthurnax and Ohdaviing not to see this. It is pindaar… plain… to the rest of us."

"Very well then." She drew her sword and leapt forward, dodging under the burst of flame that the dragon shot at her and rising once more to plunge the Nightingale blade through the beasts eye.

"Please don't talk about that conversation," she asked Balgruuf. "The blades like to believe Paarthurnax is dead and I'd prefer to keep it that way."

"This Paarthurnax is a dragon? Then why isn't he dead?"

"Because he's only thing keeping the vast majority of the dragons from attacking Skyrim. It is not in the nature of a dragon to be peaceful – Paarthurnax himself makes an effort every day to remain the way he does, and he's teaching the others the same patience."

"Well then let's hope he succeeds."

"Indeed."

She spent a another hour or so in Dragonsreach, mainly talking with the Jarl, but also with Farengar for a little while She had provided him with the samples he had needed for his research back when the dragon crises had begun and was always interested to see what progress he had made. So far, it consisted of very little.

Finally, when there was no reason not to go, Iona knew she had to visit Jorrvaskr. Still, she dragged her feet as she approached the steps up to the mead hall, the temptation simply to go down to Breezehome almost overwhelming. She still had to tell Lydia all she had learnt at Sky Haven… but that said she had no idea how to even start saying any of that, or just how much of it she even believed.

Besides, Lydia would probably just chuck her out until she'd spoken with the Companions anyway. So she pulled her tired feet up the stairs and very slowly opened the door. There was a brief moment of silence and then a roar as the Companions moved to her and embraced her, slapped her on the back, spoke loudly of many things she couldn't hear or properly understand.

All that truly registered were the faces that were absent – there was no sign of either Kodlak or Vilkas. When she finally managed to extract herself from Torvar, she headed straight for the stairs. She saw Skjorr sitting on a bench at the side of the hall, his eyes narrowed and fixed upon her. She shivered slightly and turned away, proceeding down the stairs and moving towards the Harbinger's chambers. The door was shut, something she had come to consider unusual during her previous stint as a resident of the hall. She hesitated a moment, her hand poised to knock and then lowered her fist.

Could she do this? Could she face Vilkas knowing what he knew about her, about who she had been in the past and about what she had done in this lifetime? She didn't hear Aela walk up behind her, and jumped as the companion's fist appeared from nowhere and rapped smartly upon the door. She looked at Aela in horror, but the other woman merely shrugged and turned away, a slight grin on her face.

She turned her attention back to the door quickly, however, for the sound of footsteps could be heard from the other side. When the door opened, Iona braced herself for the very worst, but it was only Kodlak on the other side.

"Iona," he said, with not a small measure of surprise. "We had heard of your… reappearance, although I must admit I didn't expect to see you back here." She wondered just how much the harbinger knew about what she had done over the past few months, and looked down at her feet to hide the burn of shame in her cheeks.

"I'm sorry harbinger," she stuttered. "I shouldn't have…"

"Now, now," Kodlak said, heading into his rooms and leaving the door open in invitation. Iona followed and sat across from him at the table, her eyes briefly drawn to the closed book sitting by a pen and inkwell by Kodlak's seat. "There are many who leave Jorrvaskr for long stretches, and were we to refuse them entry upon their return there would be very few companions left. I am sure you had your reasons for… whatever it is you've done these past months, and that is all that matters here."

"Thank you," Iona said after a moment.

"Besides," he went on, with a bark of laughter, "I doubt any of the others would forgive me if I forced the Dragonborn to leave Jorrvaskr!"

_Except maybe Skjorr_, Iona thought. She kept the thought to herself, however, choosing to ask about another member of the companion's instead. "Where is Vilkas?" she asked.

"He is on a job for me," Kodlak said. "In the Glenmoril Caverns." As soon as Kodlak said the name, Iona knew something was wrong. Her gut clenched together and she thought she might be sick, her eyes forced shut by pain.

She didn't know what it was, but there was something very wrong here, something that shouldn't be happening, something that needed to be fixed. "Where is it?" she said after a moment through a clenched jaw, determined to show as little as possible to Kodlak.

"West of Falkreath. He only left this morning, should you wish to catch up with him."

"I think I might do that," she said, taking a deep breath and moving to her feet. "Thank you Harbinger," she said, looking back as she left and nodding respectfully. He nodded and reply and motioned that she should close the door. Through the narrowing crack, Iona could see him take up the pen and slide the book across the table. For a moment she wondered what he was writing in there, and then the pain took hold again and she gasped, her attention once more fixed upon Glenmoril, and the darkness that waited within.


	14. Sam Guevenne: Sanguine

__**Hurrah! I'm still behind on my work following prolonged and complicated illness-times, but I managed to get this out over the last couple of weeks :p following a review - no, I don't plan on doing many more multiple appeasement chapters, and as a sign of good faith, please enjoy this chapter of single appeasement, lol xD**

* * *

><p><em>Sanguine<em>_ is the Daedric Prince whose sphere is hedonistic revelry and debauchery, and passionate indulgences of darker natures._

The cavern seemed quite when she entered, but that didn't mean anything. It was cold – unnaturally so, even for Skyrim, and she found that she was shivering even under the thick dragon scales of her armour. Iona's fingers gripped the hilt of her sword a little tighter as she saw a figure up ahead and she crouched, waiting for it to move, to notice her presence. Her armour might offer significant protection against physical blows, but it was not enchanted to resist magic, and without her powers she could produce no wards. If this thing were one of the witches, she would prefer to catch it by surprise.

She almost laughed a moment later, catching the slightly hysterical sound before it fully escaped, when she realised the figure didn't have a head. It was floating eerily in mid-air, but there was only a bleeding stump at the neck. Vilkas, it appeared, was already here. She crept past the body, trying her best not to look at it or breath in the filthy stench that emanated from it, and into the main chamber of Glenmoril cavern. Another two witches hung in the air before her, but still a heavy feeling of trepidation bore down upon her shoulders, and still her stomach twisted itself in knots she couldn't fully explain.

Sounds to one side drew her attention, her head snapping round, eyesight a little restricted by her helmet. Clashing of metal, screeching and shouting; the unmistakable sounds of battle. She hurried towards the sounds, down a narrow stone passageway that lead to a small pool, the ground surrounding it made hazardous by long roots and high grass. Across the other side she could see Vilkas, fighting three of the foul witches at once, and her heart leapt at the sight of him only to sink again.

He was wounded, his armour severely dented on one side, his helmet knocked from his head either by force or magic. Blood matted his hair and ran into his eyes, putting him at even more of a disadvantage.

Iona didn't even hesitate. Red seemed to cloud her vision and she leapt forward, her limbs no longer hers to control, driven by some fierce power, some terrible desire for blood. She felt a cry that was not her own tear itself out of her throat as the witches turned. The first was too late, the sharp edge of the nightingale blade parting her head from her shoulders before she knew what was happening, but the other two had time to back away, time to prepare their spells and aim for this newer, fresher target.

"IISS SLEN NUS!" she Shouted, freezing them where they stood before cutting into them with a ferocity she hadn't known she possessed.

_Stop_, she tried to tell herself. _Stop it, they're already dead!_ But still her sword arm moved, and it seemed to her that a deep, male voice was ringing inside her head, revelling in the blood, glorying in the slaughter.

_You didn't mind so much when I allowed you my abilities,_ the voice hissed to her. _Now it is my turn._ Her blood ran cold and as it did so her arm slowed and she came to herself once more.

_Not again_, she whispered in her mind. _Not you too._ She dared not turn around, dared not look Vilkas in the eye. _What must he think of me? _ She thought. _He's seen the assassin, he's seen this…_

_ I wouldn't worry about that,_ the new voice replied. _Honestly, I'm not so sure there's a you to know really._

"What do you mean?" Iona said, speaking the words out loud without truly realising what she was doing.

_Who are you? Right now it looks as though you're a mix of those of us who came before, a mix of the people you have been. You're nobody new. You have her stealth now, and my sword, but what do you have to add to the mix? Surely not your stunning personality?_

Iona shook her head. _I won't let you get to me, I won't let you control me the way she did._

_ The listener? She had a name you know._

_I don't want to know it. _

_ Well, she gave it up years before she died. She was just the listener after that, nothing more, nothing less. I had a name though. A name I could never fucking escape, no matter how hard I tried. And believe me, I did try._

_Nerevar_. The name came to Iona without any conscious effort. She had known it for some time, she realised (even before Azura had used it), but only now did she correlate it with the voice of the gruff dark elf soldier who fought with such bloodlust and drank with such abandon.

_Yes, that was me. Lord Neravar, saviour of Morrowind. Much good it did me, and much good saving Skyrim will have done you. Universal recognition isn't all it's cracked up to be, believe me._

"I am not you," she whispered. "I am Iona. I am not you, I am not her. I will remain myself."

_So tell me, what is your defining trait, Iona? _She made no reply.

"Iona?" Vilkas' voice was weak and she spun around at the sound of it, internally berating herself for not remembering his presence sooner.

"I'm here," she said, reaching into her pouch and drawing out a healing potion of reasonable strength, pulling the cork out with her teeth and hurrying to the warrior's side. Neither of them spoke as she poured the red liquid onto his head wound, but things unspoken hung heavily between them, and their eyes never quite met.

"What is it you came here for?" she asked after a moment, discarding the now empty potion bottle.

"Their heads," he replied, indicating a bloody sack to one side of the cave. Iona turned to the two deformed corpses and removed their heads before searching for the third, which had rolled some slight distance away. She dropped them into the sack and slung it over her shoulder.

"Can you walk?" she asked Vilkas, who nodded and pushed himself to his feet before retrieving his helmet. They walked in silence through the cave and out into the pale sunlight, away from the heavy darkness of Glenmoril.

"We should get these back to Jorrvaskr as soon as possible," Vilkas said. They tramped silently towards Falkreath, past the Twilight Sepulchre and inevitably the ruins of the sanctuary. Iona held her breath almost without realising as they passed the cracked black door. She clenched her fist, feeling the cold metal of the ring of moon and star bite into her palm.

_Another part of me, that one_, Neravar said, a little amused. _I wonder if Azura honestly thought that would help. _Iona ignored the voice and let out her breath as they finally moved past the sanctuary. At the gates to Falkreath Vilkas hired a coach to take them the rest of the way, and they sat in silence, Vilkas staring at the grass and Iona arguing with a voice inside her own head.

When finally they returned to Whiterun, and the stares of those who now knew her to be Dragonborn, Iona headed straight for Breezehome while Vilkas climbed to Jorrvaskr to tell Kodlak of their return.

Still questions that had to be asked and words that had to be said hung between them, but neither of them wished to be the one to break the silence and so they parted without a goodbye, or even acknowledgement that they were headed in separate directions. Iona stepped into Breezehome and closed the door behind her before stripping herself of her armour.

_You need a drink_, Neravar said pointedly as she leant her head against the wall and took deep steadying breaths.

"Because that will make everything better," Iona growled.

_It usually does, for a little while._

"And was that worth it then? That little while? Was it worth your family, your reputation, your life?" There was no reply at first, but eventually the voice came again.

_I drank to get rid of the reputation, and that worked well enough. The rest was collateral damage._

"Liar." But still Iona couldn't deny that it was tempting – to just forget the whole damn mess for one night, to not have to worry about the whole thing and just cut herself a little slack. Perhaps, she thought, if she headed to the Bannered Mare, she would not drink as much as she was likely to on her own. She sighed and headed to her wardrobe, pulling out a simple shirt and trousers, like those she wore under her armour, if a little thicker and warmer. Dressing quickly, she was soon pushing open the door to the Mare. Time had it that she had once been almost a regular at the small inn, and she could still name most of the people sitting or standing about the fire… but that seemed to her as though it were one of the many lives that weren't quite her own, a little to disconnected from the now to truly fit with her image of herself.

She settled down at the bar and ordered a bottle of mead (Black Briar of course, or else Maven would have her head were she ever to find out) and tried to ignore the stares and the silence pervading the small room.

"Long time no see," a voice said heartily, breaking through the monotony of the moment. Iona glanced around and sighed.

"Sam," she said evenly.

"Such a warm greeting," he sighed. "We had fun last time, didn't we?"

"I wouldn't know, I don't actually remember most of it. The fallout was a bit of a pain though it has to be said."

"Amusing would be my word," he laughed, tipping back his own drink. "This place seems a little quiet for you though."

"I like it here," she replied, shrugging.

"You're not as much fun as you were before," he sighed. "Got yourself a little lost up here," he tapped his temple and looked at her knowingly. "Need to clear out your head, sort things out."

_It is a little messy up here_, Neravar agreed. Iona ignored him.

"Go on," Sam urged her, "One drink, for old times' sake?" he held out a mug of a familiar foul smelling ale. "I promise I'll even have you tucked up in bed tomorrow. Not the temple of Dibella this time, promise." He grinned and Iona couldn't stop herself from twitching a very slight smile. "That's it!" he exclaimed, pressing the ale into her hands. "Drink up!"

Three mugs later, and everything went black.

Sanguine had at least been true to his word, she discovered hours later when she woke, bleary eyed but safe in her bed on the upper floor of Breezehome. Her head didn't even ache too much, which was probably some kind of miracle.

_Or I'm just better at handling a hangover than you perhaps?_ Neravar suggested.

_Still there?_ She thought with an internal sigh. She rubbed the sleep from her eye and pulled on a stiff leather shirt and pants. She wasn't training today, but she'd be heading up to Jorrvaskr and going without any armour somehow felt a little odd.

The sun was shining with almost indecent brightness as Iona headed up the hill to the cloud district, and people were milling about the streets talking animatedly. Iona wouldn't have thought twice about this, were it not for the slight snippet she overheard walking through the market.

"Yes, they came early this morning Belathor said," someone replied to their companion. "Charged right through the gates, swords drawn, howling fit to burst – called themselves the Silver Hand." At those words, Iona's blood ran cold and the scars on her face tingled slightly. It was as though the warmth had fled from the sunlight and she began to sprint, charging through the crowds without any caution, not caring who she knocked over in her desperate dash to Jorrvaskr.

Bodies littered the steps up to the meadhall, but she saw with a sigh of relief that they all wore the distinctive silver armour of the werewolf hunters, and she couldn't see any faces she recognised within the mass. As she stared, still a little numb, Aela picked her way down the stairs towards her.

"We got most of them here, but some got past us," she said, kicking at one of the bodies and not looking at Iona.

"How many?" she asked, her mouth dry.

"Enough. You'd best go inside." Iona did as Aela bid, heading through what had been a battleground only hours before, and through the open door to Jorrvaskr. Here, the bodies of the silver hand lay mixed among those of people she knew, faces she recognised. Athis lay to one side, laid out by his companions, eyes closed and arms folded. Ria was laying out Torvar in the same manner not too far away, and Skjorr's lifeless face was just visible beyond the table.

The thing that made Iona falter, however, was the sight of Vilkas at the bottom of the stairs, closing Kodlak's lifeless eyes. At the sound of her footsteps he looked up and pushed himself to his feet, moving up the stairs. He looked tired, she thought.

"Where were you last night?" he asked. There was no anger in his voice, just exhaustion.

"I… I…" she hesitated for a moment, too ashamed to tell him where she had really been. "I should have been here," she said at last, "By their side."

"The attack was unprovoked," Vilkas said, shaking his head, "You had no way of knowing it would happen. They came in force – that must have been most of their troops."

"Did any of them get away?" she asked.

"Yes, and they took the fragments of Wuuthrad." She glanced to the side to see that the brackets on the wall that usually held the stone fragments of the great axe were indeed empty. "Aela's working on finding them now," he sighed, "But it could take months and by then the fragments would be scattered across Skyrim, and Kodlak would have gone unavenged." Iona did not reply, her attention caught by one of the silver hand. His helmet had been knocked askew.

"I knew this man," she said after a moment. Vilkas' eyes widened in surprise before she elaborated. "Not well, but I've seen him – shared a drink with him once actually, but he knew me better with the mask on."

"Don't we all," Vilkas said, an edge of bitterness creeping into his voice. Iona's eyes darted up at him, but he was looking determinately away from her, meaning she could not read his expression, or know what he had meant by the words. "He used to drink at Candlehearth hall – maybe three, four times a week." She straightened. "It seems Windhelm's as a good a starting place as any. Maybe I can even ask Ulfric a favour," she laughed. "If only to see how it goes down."

"I assume the two of you haven't gotten along so well since the moot?"

"We haven't spoken since the moot. I've had other things on my mind." There was a moment of silence, filled only by the low crackling of the dying fire. Iona had only ever seen the flames at full roar, and it seemed a little sad to watch them burn so low. "I'm going to Windhelm," she said at last. "I'll be back tomorrow for… for the ceremony." She turned and headed out of the door and down the steps, walking quickly. Once she was in Breezehome she took a deep shuddering breath. She hadn't known Kodlak all that well, had only fought at his side on a couple of occasions, but already she missed him. It was ridiculous, she told herself. She'd been… busy. She hadn't even seen him for months until the other day.

_No, she didn't see him. The listener. We both know she was in control then, don't we? _

"Go away," Iona moaned. "Leave me be."

_Oh this isn't your good pal Neravar,_ the voice whispered, and as it spoke Iona realised that it was right. It didn't have the same rough, unfamiliar cadence as the voice of the dark elf warrior. _Maybe you'll hear from him again sometime, maybe not, but for now Dragonborn… Sanguine is most definitely appeased._

"Another point for Boethiah then," Iona growled, sliding down to sit on the floor.

_Oh I don't care about that. And I don't think anyone but you's actually keeping a tally. It's all about who you appease really. The how matters, of course, but appeasing an aedra is always going to win you more favours than appeasing a deadra. Now if you'll excuse me, I have far more pressing matters to deal with_.

There was silence in Iona's head and she took a deep breath. _Tick tick_. She told herself. _Tick tick_. Like the metronome in Sheogorath's little room. He'd been on her side, hadn't he? She couldn't quite tell whose side anyone was on any more. She pushed herself to her feet just in time. As she rubbed a hand across her face, smudging away the tears, Lydia opened the front door.

"Vilkas said you're off to Windhelm," she said, eying Iona carefully. "Going after the Silver Hand."

"Something like that," Iona replied, shrugging, moving towards the trapdoor.

"He wants in." She stopped and turned to look incredulously at Lydia.

"Even after everything that… in the dungeon?"

"Seems so." Lydia headed over to the table and picked up an apple before turning to scrutinise Iona, who came to the obvious conclusion.

"You asked him to keep an eye on me, didn't you?"

"Don't need to. I'm gonna be there for that. Don't want you going insane listener on us again, doubt it'd be much fun."

"I'd struggle to. I burnt the night mother, remember?"

"But the assassin is still in there," Lydia went on. "I can see it sometimes, when you look around or enter a new room. You assess everyone in an instant, find the dangerous targets out of instinct. You never used to do that."

"I never needed to before, I'd just blow the room sky high."

"Well yeah you were a bit of a show off."

"I was?" Something fell into place inside, something that she'd almost forgotten. A memory at the college of Winterhold, her very first lesson – wards. Tolfdir had shown them all a simple ward, one she'd learnt years before, and then she'd proceeded to use her own, greater ward for the demonstration, pouring as much strength into it as she could. There had been no need or reason to do it, she'd just wanted to at the time.

"Why else would you have taken the time to learn _any_ of those master spells?" Lydia asked, grinning. "You know, for a moment there you looked just like you used to. No assassin at all."

"Well then, let's go to Windhelm before I head off on another killing spree."

"Not funny."

8888888

Iona closed the trapdoor behind the three of them before reaching up and fixing her mask into place. She had lost Konrahiik in Hircine's realm, but Rahgot would do for the task ahead – assuming of course, that they managed to find the Silver Hand base of operations in the first place.

As they emerged into the street, people stared at them without shame. Clad in ebony and dragon scales, the three of them were truly making no effort to blend in, and Iona always stood out in her masks – this was what they were after today, and why she wore the mask at all. Were they to find any members of the silver hand, they wished to intimidate them quickly and efficiently.

Iona strode confidently through the snowy streets and up to the Palace of Kings, barely stopping as she pulled open the doors and headed into the great hall. As more and more people saw her, the hall grew steadily quieter. She walked slowly down the length of the table, her eyes fixed on Ulfric through the gaps in her mask. His eyes never left her either.

"Dragonborn," he said at last, his voice cool. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"I bring grave tidings," she said, "Of the death of Kodlak Whitemane." This produced, as Vilkas had predicted, quite a marked response. The silent hall began to buzz with whispered conversation and Ulfric sat up on his throne.

"And when did this happen?"

"In the early hours of this morning," Vilkas replied, "At the hands of a group of mercenary's known as the Silver Hand. They stormed Jorrvaskr and killed four of our number before they were driven away. They also stole relics of the Companions that must be reclaimed."

"And you bring this news to me because?"

"We have evidence that they are holed up near here," Iona replied. "Likely they would be mistaken for bandits or thieves along the road."

"My Jarl," Jorleif said tentatively, "There have been reports only this week of a large, well set in group just south of here in Morvunskar. Could this be the Silver hand."

"Do they wear silver?" Vilkas asked, tensing slightly, "And wear clawed gauntlets?"

"I don't know about silver," Jorleif replied, "But certainly their gauntlets are clawed."

"Thank you Jorleif," Iona said, nodding her head at the steward. "We shall not waste any more of your time, Jarl Ulfric."

"Wait Dragonborn," Ulfric said as she turned her back on him. "Take of your mask."

"You've never asked that of me before, my Jarl," she said, turning back.

"Then, I respected your wish to remain anonymous. Then I respected you. There are many rumours about you these days. First you are dead, then you are an elf… fighting with a sword." His eyes flicked to her waist and to the glowing weapon strapped to her hip – Dawnbreaker, the sword was called.

"Do you struggle to believe that an elf could be Dragonborn?" she asked, slightly amused. "Or is it that you respected me, and worry that if I am an elf it will reflect badly upon you. What message would it send to Skyrim if they learnt you couldn't have won your war without the assistance of an elf? Wouldn't it just be a cruel twist of fate if I were one of the elves from the so called grey quarter, repressed and expelled from the city once you'd won your war? Or if I were a high elf, that race you hate so much?"

"Remove your mask, Dragonborn," Ulfric repeated. Iona shrugged and slipped the mask from her face, allowing Ulfric to look at her face for the first time in many years.

"You," he said at last. "We have met before."

"At Helgen," she said. "Such a warm welcome the Empire gave me, no?"

"Helgen," Ulfric leaned back in his throne. "Such a long time ago."

"It was Alduin, that day," she said into the once more silent hall. "That was the day he returned through the time fracture at the throat of the world."

"And his first act was simply to burn down the village?"

"To try and kill me, actually. Slightly botched job he made of that one."

"Your head was on the block, if I remember rightly." Lydia was looking at Iona slightly bemused – she'd never quite managed to extract the whole story of just what had transpired at Helgen.

"Not the first time I've been close to death," she replied, shrugging.

"Nor the last," Lydia muttered. Iona allowed herself a slight smile before she pulled her mask back into place.

"Now, Jarl Ulfric, if you'll excuse us, we have business to attend to." She turned to Lydia and Vilkas, and together the three of them headed out of the palace, through Windhelm and south, to Morvunskar.


	15. Malacath

_**Well that was a damn long wait. Sorry, for anyone still here. There have been upheavals in the family, and life has altogether got in the way of all and any writing. **_

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><p><em>Malacath<em>_ is the Daedric prince whose sphere is the patronage of the spurned and ostracized, the keeper of the Sworn Oath, and the Bloody Curse._

The ruin was quite when they entered. The only sounds were the steady rush of water somewhere deep within and the only lights came from guttering candles and low lamps.

"They've retreated further in," Vilkas murmured and Iona nodded to show that she had heard. Dawnbreaker shone brightly as she drew it from the sheath, spreading golden light in a pool around the three fighters. Vilkas and Lydia had also drawn their own weapons and, slowly, they progressed through the empty halls of Morvunskar. Down some stairs and through yet more damp passages with barely any signs of life, they moved as quietly as it was possible in full armour.

Suddenly, Iona stopped and held up a hand to halt the others. She could hear footsteps in a chamber just a short distance ahead and to the left.

"I don't get why we had to relocate," someone was moaning, "They never would have found us in the caves anyway."

"Don't see why you're complaining," his companion replied with a laugh and belch – they were drinking – "It's warmer here."

"Not saying much."

"Just two," Iona whispered, "I'll only be a second." Before either of the others could say a thing, Iona had slid forward. She moved slowly, the golden light of her sword dimming as she slunk into the shadows. The two members of the Silver Hand had fallen silent, staring morosely into a low fire that could not be providing anything much in the way of warmth. As she approached, one of them coughed – a deep chested noise that made it sound as though an infection was building. It was not uncommon, she had learned, among the bandits and other scum who'd made places such as these their home.

Gabrielle had caught something, she remembered, about a week before the sanctuary had been destroyed. Iona shook her head and narrowed her eyes, returning her thoughts to the matter at hand. She was still behind them, and soon enough the light from her sword would spill far enough forward that they could not help but notice it. Iona grinned as an idea occurred to her and she sucked in a very slight breath.

"_Zul Mey Gut_." It was not the usual shout produced by the thu'um, but a very slight whisper, followed by a taunting voice from the corridor that lead out from the room. The shout was silly, offensive and utterly brilliant. Both men turned to face the new voice, eyes narrowed and clearly ruffled. Their hands rested upon their weapons, already loose in their sheaths, and the claws upon their knuckles shone very slightly with enchanted light. Iona waited with bated breath as one of them, the one sat nearest her, moved to his feet.

She leapt forward on light feet, her sword flashing down and glowing once more with Meridia's bright light. The hilt caught him on the back of his head and he staggered, arms reeling. Iona took advantage of his inbalance and lunged, pulling her sword back against the unprotected skin beneath his arm. He cried out as blood began to spurt. It was a fatal wound – the vessel their lead swiftly to the heart and he would bleed out in little time. Iona turned to face the second warrior as her first opponent fell to the floor clutching at his arm. Iona was about to charge when Lydia dashed past her with her own sword held high. The sinister lights of the deadric armour seemed to momentarily distract him and Lydia took advantage of his helmetless state to make his head part company from his shoulder.

Vilkas moved forward into the small room and surveyed the two bodies. "On?" he said gruffly.

"On," Iona confirmed, moving ahead to take the lead once more. The Silver Hand were spread out through the cave, sticking to the rooms with fires, or else cupping their hands around weak spell flames to try and regain some feeling in their fingers. Truly, they didn't put up much of a fight.

The further the three fighters progressed into Morvunskar, the noticeably colder it became and they were grateful for the layers of their armour and the golden warmth that emanated from the sword Iona still kept a tight grip on with her right hand.

"We're getting closer," Vilkas growled, "I can smell them." Iona glanced back and nodded to show him that she understood, then reached out to the cold iron of the door in front of them. She grasped the ring of metal and twisted it, allowing the door to swing open.

Their approach had not been a quiet one. In fact, it had been quite loud, despite the fact that Iona had deliberately avoided using all but the quietest of her thu'um. What was left of the Silver Hand stood before them, fully armoured and with their weapons drawn. They were ready to fight – to meet the avenging Companions head on.

They were not, however, ready for the Dragonborn. "FUS RO DAH!" she Shouted, sending the first line of fighters flying back into the comrades, a writhing pile of steel and silver. She ran forward and to the side, allowing Vilkas and Lydia to move forward.

The song of steel upon silver met Iona's ears even as her own golden weapon clashed against the brightly gleaming metal of those wielded by the Silver Hand. There were far more fighters here than she could have anticipated, and they fought with all the dirty tricks known to the sentient races. Their clawed gauntlets rose sparks off the dark metal of Lydia and Vilkas' armour, and even made the occasional chip in the scales of Iona's lighter set. Her eyes narrowed behind the mask as she felt the thu'um building once more in her chest, dragonfire burning at her throat.

"YOL TOOR SHUL!" A great belch of flame scattered the enemy, but many were not quick enough. They fought atop the burnt corpses, their feet unsure over the melted, unrecognisable faces. Fear was now evident in the faces of those before them, and in the movement of their weapons. Their terror was as clear as the determination of those they fought, and the fury in their eyes inspired only more fear.

Finally, there was only a single member of the Silver Hand remaining. He looked from Vilkas to Iona and threw down his weapon, kneeling before them and crying out, "Mercy! I beg your mercy!" Vilkas, breathing heavily, reached up and pulled off his helmet.

"And what have you done today that deserves our mercy, boy?" he asked, eyes narrowed. The boy – for this survivor was indeed young – did not answer. There was a cut above one of his eyes and his helmet had been lost during the fight. He looked between his opponents and did not speak. Iona reached up and removed her mask, kneeling before the boy.

"Did your comrades show mercy to those they killed in Jorrvaskr?" she asked quietly. "Did they show any mercy to Kodlak when they slaughtered him and ran like cowards with the treasures he dedicated a large part of his life to collect?" The boy didn't (or else couldn't) look her in the eye. "Answer me!" Iona cried.

"No," he sobbed. "No, they didn't." The assassin inside Iona's chest roared for his blood, and for a moment Iona wanted nothing more than to satisfy that craving, nothing more than to smite this pathetic excuse for a nord where he knelt before them. She raised her sword, preparing to strike and….

Dropped it to the ground. Her hand shook as she stepped backwards, out of the golden light cast by Dawnbreaker. That was not who she was. The assassin was dead. She was Iona. A mage. A show off. Dohvakiin. Dragonborn. Saviour of Skyrim.

She did not murder those who begged for her mercy. Bending down, she retrieved the sword with a shaking hand and slid it into her belt. "You can have our mercy," she said, her voice filled with quiet rage, "In exchange for the shards of Wuuthrad." His eyes darted to a chest in the corner. Vilkas moved towards it and examined it.

"It's locked," he said. "Anyone got any picks?"

"Freydis had the key," the boy said quickly, his eyes dropping for a brief second to the corpse of a Redguard woman whose eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling. Lydia checked her pockets and through the brass key to Vilkas. He caught it and slid it into the lock.

After a moment, he drew out a canvas sack and looked inside, counting. "They're all here," he said after a moment.

"Good," Iona said, her voice weary. "Then let us return to Whiterun." Vilkas nodded and turned to leave without a word. Iona hesitated, wanting to say something and yet unsure what words there were. Her last meeting with Vilkas made these things awkward to say the least. She sighed, and moved past the last member of the Silver Hand, picking up her sword, towards the barred door at the other end of the room and sunlight.

As they emerged from the darkness, Iona heard a whisper upon the wind. "_Congratulations, my Nerevarine_," Azura whispered to her. "_You have defied Malacath, and broken the Oath Sworn in Blood. He is forced to give you his blessing. Malacath is appeased._"

"Another one," she said, glancing to Lydia.

"Who?"

"Malacath. Not in the way he wanted though. I think he wanted us to wipe out the silver hand entirely. The Sworn Oath and the Bloody Scourge. That sort of thing." Lydia nodded and slid her bloodied sword into its sheath.

"You know, that bit there at the end… that's the most you've seemed yourself in a very long time."

"That's the most I've felt like myself in a very long time," she replied, a smile touching her lips. "It felt… nice." It was early evening by the time they reached Winterhold, and the three of them dragged their feet to Hjerim and down into the basement that connected Iona's houses. They changed from their battle scarred and bloodied armour – Vilkas donned his Wolf Armour, which he had left there on a previous occasion, for the funeral, while Lydia and Iona chose lighter, more comfortable armours.

As she pulled on her Nightingale armour, Iona's thoughts strayed to the people she had been over the past few months. Assassin, swordsmaster and Lord Neravar…

None of these people were right though, and finally this felt like something she could acknowledge. Turning, her eyes fell upon the treasures that littered her armoury. Weapons and armours of legend and myth, most of it unused since the day it had been awarded to her or else unearthed in some draugr infested pit and yet she'd never sold it on.

The assassin would have done, she realised. She had felt no attachment to the items she found, selling them without a seconds thought. The swordsman would have sold them too, funding his drinking with the treasures of history.

What of the others in her past, she wondered. What would the orc smith have done, had he ever collected something like the treasures that now sat before her? What would the original Lord Nerevar have done. And what of Tiber Septim?

Iona hesitated a moment and then pulled off the leather gloves of the nightingale armour. Was this her, she wondered? How much of her life was composed of bits and pieces pulled from people who were her and yet weren't at the same time?

The assassin. It always came back to her, or so it seemed to Iona. The assassin who kept to the shadows and the fringe of society. Thinking about it, Iona realised she didn't want to become this.

What was it she had decided? She was a mage, a natural show off. She would wear her achievements for all to see, spread her name across the land. For she was dovahkiin, and why the hell not?


	16. Nocturnal, of Night and Darkness

_Nocturnal__ is the Daedric Prince whose sphere is the night and darkness, also known as the Night Mistress._

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><p>Iona trudged slowly up the hill with her companions. The whole of Whiterun was out on the streets, silent and staring up towards Jorrvaskr. They had all respected Kodlak Whitemane and now paid that to him in his death. The stairs up to the mead hall had never felt steeper, but finally they reached the skyforge and the pyre that had been made ready.<p>

Iona barely heard the words spoken by the various circle members; she only registered the grief and the pain beneath them. Flames roared into the sky and smoke stung their eyes, but no one looked away. It was a long time before they made their way down the hill, but there was no celebration to be held, no great revelry. The members of the circle gathered at the base of the hill and Vilkas indicated to Iona and Lydia that they too should remain behind.

They watched as Aela pressed her hand to the stone of the cliff face and pushed inwards, revealing a carvern beneath the forge that Iona had never known about. "One moment!" Iona turned at the voice and saw Eorlund Grey-Mane looking at her. "Vilkas gave me the shards you retrieved," he said. "There were some in there the silver hand have been holding on to for centuries. For the first time since the weapon was broken, we have all the shards."

"That's good, I guess," Iona said.

"Indeed. The last shard is in Kodlak's chambers… Would you bring it to me? I want to get started right away." Iona nodded and turned away from the chamber under the forge, moving to the mead hall. The fire inside was completely out now, the upper room cold and unwelcoming. Iona hurried through the place and straight down to the suite of rooms that belonged to the Harbinger.

The shard lay on top of a chest in the bedroom, next to a book bound in plain leather that Iona had seen Kodlak write in on more than one occasion. Her fingers brushed the worn leather for only a second before she found herself sitting on the stone floor, flicking through the thick parchment pages.

_In my dream, I see the line of Harbingers start with Ysgramor. Each of them ascends to Sovngarde, until we come to Terrfyg, who first turned us to the ways of the beast. He tries to enter Sovngarde, but before he can even approach Tsun, he is set upon by a great wolf, who pulls him into the Hunting Grounds, where Hircine laughs with welcoming arms. _

Iona shuddered at the image. Her meetings with Hircine (both this life and previous) were dark memories of blood and danger.

_Terrfyg seems regretful, but also eager to join Hircine after a lifetime of service as a beast. _

_Then I see every next Harbinger turn away from Sovngarde and enter the Hunting Grounds of their own accord. Until it comes to me, and I see great Tsun on the misty horizon, beckoning me. It appears I have a choice. And then, at my side, a stranger I had not seen before. As I look into her eyes, we turn to see the same wolf who dragged away Terrfyg, and she and I draw weapons together. _

_I realize this is only a dream, but a strong enough dream to inspire a man like me to take to writing, so it must be of some import. I've spoken of my thoughts to the Circle, withholding the part about the stranger lest Skjor worry I will no longer seek his counsel, and I was not surprised to see them torn by it. Skjor and Aela are strong in the ways of the beast, and even seemed to suggest that the Hunting Grounds would be their choice of afterlife, if it were truly a choice. Vilkas seemed most troubled. The boy is as fierce as a sabre cat in battle, but his heart's fire burns too brightly at times. He felt deceived, and I don't blame him. Farkas didn't know what to think, but I believe he will come around with me and his brother eventually. He usually does. I don't know what to do about Skjor and Aela. I know they respect the Companions, and me, but they take to the blood more deeply than the rest of us. _

_Fortune smiles upon us yesterday, Vilkas was telling me how difficult it had been for him to give up his transformations. Until we can pursue a true cure, the twins and I have chosen not to give in to the beastblood. For me, it's provided a clearer head, but Vilkas seems to be suffering a bit for it. Farkas seems completely untroubled. That boy continues to amaze with his fortitude. _

_While Vilkas was confiding, through the shadows of Jorrvaskr, I saw a newcomer approach, who wished to join our numbers. It was the stranger from my dream, the one who would stand with me against the beast. _

Iona started, staring down at the words on the page. Kodlak was talking about her. She had been the one in his dream, the woman standing at his side at the moment where Sovngarde and the Hunting Grounds met.

_Vilkas began speaking obliquely, not wishing to air our problems in front of our guest, and I had to be doubly cautious to not reveal anything of our secrets to the newcomer while also not revealing the details of my dream to Vilkas. I don't know how the politicians deal with these sorts of machinations daily. In any case, I've sent Vilkas to test the newcomer. We'll see if she is truly the great warrior I dreamt of. _

_It is strange. This newcomer has seen much of battle, I am sure. She has the look in her eyes, the scars of allies lost, and yet she is barely able to hold a sword. She calls herself Iona, and despite her lack of skill in battle she has already impressed many here in Jorrvaskr with her determination to learn. I still keep my own counsel on her place in my dream, for now. Let us see what kind of destiny she is carving before pitching to her. _

_In the meanwhile, I look for ways of cleansing my blood. The writings and legends on the subject are sparse and contradictory. I don't wish to engage any wizadry on this matter, but I fear they may be the only ones who best know how to navigate these worlds of knowledge. _

_It's apparent to me now that Terrfyg's choice to turn us was indeed a mistake. Magics and their ilk are not in keeping with the spirit of the Companions. We face our problems directly, without the need of such trickery. I can only hope to guide us back to the true path of Ysgramor before the rot takes me. _

_Iona has truly begun to impress. I don't know where she will stand on the question of the blood, but the question has not been presented yet. She does know that we carry the beastblood, and appears curious about it. Soon enough, I can explain our troubles, and hopefully see what role she will play. _

_The loss of Farkas has shaken the companions to the very roots, and we all grieve for him. I write this hurriedly, for while I am not sure what it is the Dragonborn plans, surely it will be a journey of honour. She claims that she plans to avenge Farkas, and it is true that she was present in the moments of his death, but still I have wondered more than once these past weeks…_

There had been a few times, Iona remembered, when she'd wondered if Kodlak had known more than he had let on. It appeared that he had at least suspected the truth before it was revealed to him.

_My suspicions, it has transpired, were not baseless. Iona, the Dragonborn, has shown great valour and deep honour this day. We have not had much cause to speak in her time at Jorrvaskr, and that is something I deeply regret.I feel in my bones that we shall not speak again, but at least now Sovngarde awaits me, in these twilight years._

_I hope that Iona does return to the companions soon, as I have realized perhaps too late that her appearance in my dream may indeed mark her as the Harbinger to succeed me. _

Now there was an alien notion if Iona ever considered one.

_I have received few dreams over the course of my life, but when they come, I have learned to trust them. I have also learned to trust the instincts of my heart, which tells me that Iona can carry the Companions legacy as truly as any residing in Jorrvaskr, especially with the losses we have suffered Skjor is too proud, Aela too solitary, and Vilkas too fiery. Only Iona stands as a true warrior who can keep a still mind amidst these burning hearts. _

_I will not speak to her of any of this, though. Even if I should see her again it is too much to burden another with. I would hope that she and I can keep counsel over the coming years, that I can impart the wisdom of the Harbingers, but I know that this is not what will come._

Iona closed the book. There was more. Months and months more, but she had read all there was pertaining to herself. She did not need to know any more.

"Well, this is most disheartening." The voice was astoundingly familiar and Iona leapt to her feet, eyes darting around the room.

"Nocturnal?" she asked hesitantly.

"Yes," Came the displeased reply as a beautiful woman with midnight blue skin formed from the shadows. "I had expected better from one sworn into my service than to sit here, moping." Her voice was coloured with clear and obvious distaste.

"You have come because of the trials?" Iona asked.

"Of course."

"And are you appeased?"

"Not even close, my child," Nocturnal's eyes flashed with anger, with destruction barely reigned in. Iona swallowed and shifted slightly, her fingers curling around the shard of Wuuthrad she still held. "But then… I have no wish to lose one of my own, but in particular I have no wish to see you go to Boethiah."

"Then you would see me as… see me elsewhere?"

"I would prefer to see you remain," Nocturnal sniffed, "To see the natural order followed. You took the Nightingale vow, you were mine!" Again her eyes flashed, and it seemed to Iona that the room darkened, the form of the deadric prince outlined for a moment in shining silver. It seemed for an instant that the shadow of a black bird was perched upon her shoulder.

"But this cannot be," Nocturnal sighed, and the room was as it had been. "All are determined for this to be the last of your lives, for the decision to be made." Iona realised she was holding her breath, and let it out in a quiet stream, waiting for Nocturnal to continue.

"I release you from your oath," Nocturnal said at last, "No longer may you name yourself Nightingale. I take from you my blessing and my gifts, and bestow instead my appeasement. Go forth, Listener, Stormcrown, Nerevar, Champion, Iona… See to it that this Nirn remains unchanged." The shadows moved forward, black tendrils wrapping slowly around Nocturnal's form until there was nothing left but a single, black feather.


	17. The Beginning of the End

**A very long time coming. x.x Sorry about that. It's also very short, but I reckon this story's nearly done. :) Not far to go now, for certain.**

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><p>Iona took a moment to recover, but she could hardly say the visit was unexpected. The number of Gods remaining to appease was shrinking rapidly, and Nocturnal definitely had a personal interest in Iona. Or she had before, anyway.<p>

Placing Kodlak's journal back where she had found it, Iona hurried back to the Skyforge with the final shard of Wuuthrad. She gave it to Eorlund and then headed to the Underforge, where the members of the circle were waiting.

Iona had never joined the circle, she realised as she moved into the dark cavern. She knew she would have decided against it though, if it had meant taking the beastblood.

"It was Kodlak's last wish," Vilkas was saying as she entered, "And he should have it."

"Would it work though?" Aela asked in reply. "We have no guarantee it would have any effect."

"I will go anyway, for his sake," Vilkas said after a moment.

"I will as well," Iona murmured, causing the remaining two circle members to turn and look at her as she entered, "If you will permit a non-circle member to join you. Although you'll have to tell me exactly what it is we're actually doing."

"We're going to the tomb of Ysgramor," Vilkas replied, "To cleanse Kodlak's spirit." Iona nodded. "That's what he would have wanted."

"There's a problem," Aela sighed. "We can't enter the tomb – not without Wuuthrad. It's the key to the entrance, and Companions have tried to enter in the past without success."

Eorlund may have the answer to that," Iona replied, "We'll have to wait for him to finish though." From the skyforge above they could hear the pounding of his hammer as he worked, and they sat in silence for many long hours, waiting.

Iona dared not speak. She glanced at Vilkas occasionally, thinking of the things that still hung unsaid between them. Mostly she looked inwards, on the people she had been, and on the person she thought she was. Would she ever truly be able to separate them? She hoped as much, hoped to find Iona in and among the rest.

When the sounds from above ceased, the atmosphere within the underforge seemed to thicken. When Eorlund entered, he held Wuthraad, reforged to allow them entry to Ysgramor's tomb.

He turned first to Iona, but she shook her head. She would not carry Wuthraad, that was for a member of the circle. So instead Eorlund gave the great axe to Vilkas, who strapped it to his back, where it rested on top of the ebony of his armor.

"Where is the tomb?" Iona asked.

"North of Winterhold," Aela replied. Iona nodded.

"We'll go through Breezehome."

It was late when they emerged into the streets of Windhelm, but they did not stop to rest. Iona slipped on her dragonbone helm and they left the city without a word, turning north towards Winterhold and the Tomb of Ysgramor.

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><p>Iona panted, sheathing her sword as the spirit dissipated into nothing. A short distance away, Aela was retrieving arrows from where they lay on the floor, and Vilkas was returning Wuthraad to the straps on his back. The doors to Ysgramor's final resting place lay before them, and the graves of his three hundred companions behind.<p>

It was with hesitant steps that they entered the grand chamber. It was immediately clear where Ysgramor lay, for there was a stone sarcophagus raised high at the end of the chamber. Before them, in the centre of the hall, was a small stone brazier, which inexplicably burned with a bright blue flame.

Beside it, seemingly warming his hands in the flames, stood the spirit of Kodlak Whitemane.

"Greeting shield sister," he said as Iona made her way towards him. The heat of the flames was intense, and she stopped a few metres away, looking straight at Kodlak.

"Is it true?" she asked, "Can we still cure you now?"

"Well I can only hope," he said, smiling slightly. Vilkas moved forward, the sack of heads slung over one shoulder. "Ahh, you still have those," Kodlak said, "Throw one into the fire to release their magic for me."

Iona took one from the bag, grasping it by the hair. It stank, and she threw it as quick as possible into the blue flames. They roared and leapt high into the air, turning a bright orange. The heat washed over her as Kodlak's spirit bent over in pain.

A red wolf seemed to rip itself from his chest and bounded straight at Aela, who threw her bow to one side and drew a short sword. The weapon made contact with the spirit flesh of the beast as it bit down upon the skyforge steel. Iona leapt forward, knocking into the animal with a shoulder and pushing it to the ground. It rolled over, growling at them as it began to circle them.

Vilkas was the first to move, lunging forward with Wuuthrad and cleaving the beast across the head with a blow that would have felled any normal wolf.

Kodlak's spirit wolf simply shook it's head slightly and refocused it's eyes, this time upon Iona. She looked at it and felt it staring back, piercing down until it could see the bruised and torn remains of her soul.

The world seemed to stop around her for a moment, and her heart faltered. She heard her sword clang to the ground, but she didn't remember letting go. As the wolf leapt towards her, Iona raised a hand instinctively, years of fighting coming to her as she pushed outwards, directing power as fierce heat and blinding light.

And the power responded. Flames burst from Iona's fingertips and flew straight and true towards the wolf, crashing into it's spirit flesh.

Again, her heart faltered. She watched, curiously detached, as the wolf fell back and faded away. She was aware of her vision closing in, aware that she was falling down into nothingness.

A voice echoed around her, holding her still.

"_The Final Trial has begun."_


	18. Akatosh, of Time

**Phew. Last chapter, just the epilogue to go now. :) It's taken a while (too long, I know!) but we'll get there I swear!**

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><p><strong><em>Akatosh<em>**_ is the Dragon God of Time and the chief god of the pantheon _

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><p>Iona's head span as she came to. She found herself lying upon soft Earth. The grass, however, smelt wrong. It wasn't green either. It was a deep red, and crunched beneath her hands as she pushed herself into a sitting position. The sky, too, was tinged red. Ahead of her, ugly black stones jutted forward from the red Earth. On the stone nearest to her stood a woman.<p>

She was tall, her long black hair blowing in a non-existent breeze, her skin the same red as the landscape. When she spoke, her tone was deep and dark, Iona felt it grate upon her down to her very soul.

"I am Boethiah," she said, her voice echoing somehow as it crashed against Iona. "Called the Prince of Plots, the ruler of deceit, conspiracy, secret plots of murder, assassination…" A cruel smile curled her red lips as she looked down upon Iona, who pushed herself to her feet – she would not kneel before Boethiah. "I am the anticipation of Almalexia," she continued, "And _you are mine_." Iona shivered at the words, and at the sudden biting chill that clawed at her through the dragon scales of her armour.

Figures were coming out of the shadows behind Boethiah. They came and stood beside her, equals and allies, and one by one they gave Iona their names.

"I am Mephala," a dark figure said. Iona found she could not look at Mephala directly, could not see exactly what this particular Prince looked like. "I am the webspinner, spider, and the anticipation of Vivec."

"I am Molag Bal. You shall be a slave to Boethiah's will, and this world will collapse for your failures."

"My name is Namira, and I am the ancient dark that will consume the world when your power is broken."

There were two more sillhouettes… three actually, now that Iona looked, but they did not speak. One of them woofed, and that gave Iona a clue as to who two of those figures were – Clavicus Vile and his companion, the dog Barbas. She couldn't remember which of the other Deadric princes remained.

"What am I here for?" she shouted to Boethiah, determined not to show cowardice. She was Talos, and she must be strong.

"The final challenge is upon you, and the fate of Nirn is to be decided."

"Then where are the Aedra?" she asked, still shouting as a fierce wind whipped around her, throwing hair into her eyes. "Are they not here to witness this?"

"I am here." The voice boomed across the dark landscape and Iona whipped around to see who had spoken. A man stood before her, impossibly tall and muscular, his eyes bright blue and shining, his arms covered by the characteristic marks and burns of a blacksmith.

"My Lord Zenithar," she shouted, "I know you are not the only Aedra I have left to appease. Where are Akatosh? And Mara?"

"The Lady Mara has abstained from this process," he said, turning his piercing eyes upon her, "For you have lost your heart, and she cannot yet help you."

"And Akatosh."

"What comes next will tell you where he sits." Iona nodded and turned back to the deadra.

"So what is it then?" she asked. "What is this final challenge?"

"The final trial is simple," Boethiah said, a smile curling her lips. "You must find yourself."

"What does that mean?" But even as Iona shouted the words, the world around her began to dissolve and she was falling, down through darkness that seemed to have no end. Screams assaulted her ears and she cried out, clasping her hands over her ears but it made no difference – they were inside her head and they screamed her name.

"_You killed me, listener! You destroyed me!"_

"_You could have saved me!"_

"_Why weren't you there?"_

"_What did I do to deserve your anger?" _

"I don't want to die."

That last one was different, and her eyes snapped open, although she had not even realised they were closed. She lay on a floor of black stone, and she pushed herself carefully to her feet. Her head pounded, but she knew she could not rest – whatever this trial was, she had to complete it.

"Are you looking for me?" a voice said before her. She started, flames leaping into her hands as a figure stepped from the shadows that surrounded her.

Sharp red eyes in sunken pits. Blue skin, and black hair pulled tightly into a knot at the back of his head.

"You're him," she stuttered. "The Nerevarine."

"That I am," he acknowledged, pulling a small dwarven dagger like none Iona had ever seen from his belt. He wore a strange glove in the hand that held it, and Iona realised she knew what these things were.

Wraithguard. Keening. The words were familiar, even if the objects were foreign, and she knew enough to fear what he held.

"Perhaps it is me you search for?" a second voice, one that sent chills down her spine. She swallowed, and there was the listener, resplendent in her white leather, her eyes narrowed as she drew the Blade of Woe.

"But there is me as well," an unfamiliar voice, though one gruff enough that it could only belong to one race. Sure enough a hulking orc emerged from behind the listener, his green skin stretched tight over the muscles of his bare chest, formed by long days of hard work, a great hammer resting casually upon his shoulder.

"You've seen a little of me as well, I think." This voice was confident, laughter bubbling below the surface. A hand landed on Iona's shoulder and she jumped, spinning around to see a young Nord woman in black and golden armour – the Champion of Cyrodil.

Two more figures stood behind her, and Iona knew who they were instinctively – the original Nerevarine, for there had been two, and Tiber Septim himself. They stood away from the group that surrounded her, almost as if they were in on some kind of secret.

Iona looked from face to face, panic rising in her chest. The flames that licked at her fingertips grew more intense, and she saw the listeners eyes flick down towards them. "It seems this is the end, little mage," she whispered, before leaping forward to attack. Iona barely ducked out of the way, rolling to avoid the blow which clanged against the Champion's armour Shouts rose around her as the forms of her past lives dived in to attack, and she pushed herself to her feet.

Just in time as well, for when she looked around, Nerevar's blade was singing as it cut through the air, straight at her face. "Zun haal viik!" she Shouted, and the sword flew backwards out of his hands. He cursed and raised a fist, jabbing forwards so quickly that she barely had time to move. The blow cuffed the side of her head and she staggered back, her helmet knocked askew, blocking her sight. Cursing, she ripped it away, feeling the strength of the souls within her gathering once more.

"Liz slen nus!" Nerevar froze and toppled over, unmoving, as did the orc who had been standing just beside him. Iona panted for breath as the champion turned to face her. The woman's eyes were steel, sharper even than the greatsword she held at the ready. Raising her hands, Iona gathered fire between them and hurled it at her, a great fireball that exploded upon contact with her armour.

The champion simply laughed, shrugging off the blaze as though it was nothing – but of course it made sense for her to be protected against fire, and nothing Iona had could match the heat of Oblivion itself.

Now ice flowed at her fingertips, but she was forced to drop her hands and duck as the listener leapt seemingly from nowhere, the blade of woe flashing as it came within inches of Iona's throat.

She saw something, as she span away from the attack, that almost made her pause. Off to one side, the original Nerevar stood still, watching the fight before him. To his side was Tiber Septim, and his eyes met Iona's. There was a deep sadness in there, a rising despair.

What was it that frightened him so? Iona worried, backing away from the fighters as Nerevar and the orc pushed themselves to their feet, shaking free crystals of ice. They turned towards her, all four of them advancing upon her, and Iona did the only thing she could think of.

"Feim zii gron!" she Shouted, feeling herself fade until she was only a shadow. That didn't mean she had no power, however, and she gathered frost in her hands, tracing the appropriate rune with her arms, feeling the blizzard build within her spirit flesh. She held still as her past lives stopped, eyes wary. Her arms shook with the strain of holding in the spell, but her eyes had once more found those of Tiber Septim.

He shook his head. The movement was slight, a tiny twitch that could have been almost anything, but somehow Iona found she knew what she had to do.

"Stop this," she said, her arms falling to her sides, the energy of the spell dispersing. Her voce echoed strangely in her ears, for she had not cast the spell and was still incorporeal. "This is not right. You're me. All of you – all six. You are me, and I am you."

"Even I?" the listener asked quietly, stalking up to stand inches before Iona's face, her eyebrows raised.

"Yes. Even you. Everyone has some part of themselves they don't like, can't like. I hate that you're a part of me, that I can feel you inside of me. But you are there, as is everyone here." The Shout wore off, but no one moved in that place of shadows.

"You told me to find myself Boethiah!" Iona shouted. "I did! Here I am. All of me! Now end this thing!"

Nothing happened for a second, and she worried briefly that she might be wrong, that somehow she had failed the trial…

But then cracks began to appear in the darkness, white light shone from them, blinding her and she cried out.

As she blinked away the whiteness, Iona felt them rush back into her, the past lives, and she was whole once more.

"I am Akatosh," a voice boomed through the light. "I welcome you, Talos Stormcrown, to the pantheon of the Aedra."


	19. Talos, of War and Governance

**And the prologue! Thanks for sticking with me, I know the updates haven't been particularly frequent/long/regular delete as applicable, I appreciate any feedback you can give me now the story's over!**

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><p><em><strong>TalosTiber Septim is the God of War and Governance **_

**_Mara__ is the Mother Goddess and Goddess of Love _**

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><p>"Not yet," Iona whispered, her eyes closed. "Not yet, I'm not ready."<p>

"You would refuse your place upon the pantheon?" Akatosh's voice was not angry. It was loud, and all encompassing. It sound like a wise man, a young girl, a crying baby, and a screaming warrior all at the same time, the voices overlapping to produce the voice of a God.

"Not refuse, postpone." Now she opened her eyes, only to see nothing but blinding light surrounding her. "My previous lives were full, and for the most part they were happy. They lived, they laughed, they loved and they died. I ask only the chance to do the same once more. I would live as Iona, as I lived as them, without the influence they have wielded over me this past year."

"Why do you ask this? Did you not accept them as a part of you?"

"That I did, Lord Akatosh, however, Iona is a part of me too. Right now, she is the _main_ part of me, the one that still lives and draws breath. I would allow this life it's completion before I join you, here in the pantheon."

"Let it be so, Lord Akatosh," a gentle voice murmured. Iona could still see nothing but the light, but instinctively she found she knew who was talking: Mara, Goddess of Love. "Allow this life to finish its cycle, so that Talos can be complete. Balance must be achieved in all things. In life, in our work… and in love. This woman has much yet to give to the world."

There was silence, and Iona was forced to wait, knowing that the father of the Gods was deciding her fate.

"Very well then, Mage Iona. You shall return to Nirn and live your life. The essence of Talos, the memories of your previous lives, shall remain here, to reconnect with you upon your death."

"Thank you," Iona began, but the light was receding, and she was falling.

Fast.

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><p>"FEIM ZII GRON!" Iona shouted as the ground rushed up to meet her. She felt the landing, but the sudden presence of the ground didn't hurt. Standing, she glanced around to try and orientate herself, to work out where she'd landed.<p>

It didn't take her too long to spot Dragonsreach upon the horizon. Perfect.

The walk was short, no more than an hour or so, and she met no one on the road. By the time she entered the city, it was dark, the streets almost empty.

Still, the guards stared at her with wide eyes, and Iona had to wonder just how long she'd been gone – did time work differently in the realms she'd visited? The hearth was warm when she entered Breezehome, the embers of a dying fire telling her that someone was in. She moved up the stairs as quietly as she could, and checked the master bedroom – it was empty, everything exactly where she had left it on her last visit.

When she opened the door to Lydia's room a crack, the housecarl looked up from her book and smiled. "You've got to stop doing this disappearing thing," Lydia said. "It's getting really repetitive." And then she burst into tears.

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><p>Iona took care of the dragons outside of Whiterun the following morning, but she very deliberately avoided Jorvaskr. It was shameful, she knew, but that was a conversation she wanted to put off just a little while longer.<p>

Instead she headed to Riften, and dealt with their dagons before heading south to Nightingale Hall, where Karliah lived, and Brynjolf was waiting as per her request.

"You're resigning?" Brynjolf said when she explained her plans, his tone flat. "Can you even do that?"

"Honestly, I'd like to see you stop me," she replaid with a grin.

"And you're not a Nightingale anymore?" Karliah marvelled aloud. "Are you sure?"

"Quite. I've got enough to be getting along with once I die without adding guarding the Midnight Sepulchre to the list."

"Are we going to get an explanation for that part, lass?"

"Unlikely," she replied, grinning. "I leave the guild in your most capable hands."

"Aye, you do that. Make sure to drop into the Flagon some time though. I'll even buy you a drink."

"I'll hold you to that."

8888888

The cave was in ruins, just as she remembered. The burnt coffin in which the Night Mother's corpse had rested was broken, and it was just an empty box. It held no power, and the memory of what Iona had done in her name rang untrue in her mind. She could not remember those months she had been convinced she was the assassin, but she remembered the times of uncertainty, when her original self pushed her way to the surface.

It had been enough in the end. This place held no power over her any more.

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><p>The soul enveloped her, and it was calming. The power swelled within her chest, warm and familiar. "That was fun," Lydia said drily from the other side of the skeleton, picking her way around to stand next to Iona.<p>

"Yep. I just love unexpected Dragon battles first thing in the morning."

"I don't think it counts as morning if the sun's still below the horizon," Lydia muttered. Voices made them turn, and Iona's blood ran cold. They weren't far from Whiterun, for they had been on their way back from Falkreath when the dragon attacked, so they were in Companion's territory.

And the Companion's, naturally, had responded. Iona couldn't see them yet, but she could hear their voices as they hurried up the hill, beyond which lay the dragon's bones. "We could run?" Iona suggested half-heartedly.

"The bones would give you away," Lydia replied, wiping her sword on the grass, "And you owe them an explanation." Without another word, she moved away, leaving Iona standing alone by the bones of the dead dragon.

Anxiously, she tugged at the sleeves of her robes, those that designated her arch-mage of the College of Winterhold. She pushed the hood back and ran a hand through her hair, taking a deep breath and waiting for them to see her, keeping her eyes downcast.

When they crested the hill, their voices tailed off. She waited, bracing herself for the coming recriminations.

Instead, there was a cheer, and the sound of running feet. Iona looked up just in time to see the oncoming companions, a large group of them, as they barrelled into her. The air was knocked from her lungs as she was pushed down onto the ground, and Iona found that she was crying, but also laughing at the same time.

"Let the woman breath," Aela's voice shouted above the hubbub, but there was a smile in her words, and she extended a hand to raise Iona to her feet. "We thought you'd gone and died all over again," she said, "Until we got word of your return a week ago."

"Yeah, I was gone a while I know."

"Things have moved on while you were gone."

"Not all things," she replied, smiling. "Winterhold was waiting, and others as well."

"Ahh yes, Arch-Mage. We heard about that one while you were gallivanting off goodness knows where." Aela paused and looked Iona up and down. "You got all that stuff sorted then?"

Snorting slightly, Iona nodded. "I'm here to stay this time. Or at least, that's the plan."

"Good. Come on you lot, dragon's dead, we've got other work to do." She turned, rounding up the other Companions as she moved away.

All except one, naturally.

Vilkas had hung back, and his eyes were apprehensive. Iona opened her mouth to speak, realised she didn't have the words, and then closed it again. She had wanted to put of this moment for as long as possible, for she had worried that everything to do with him had been something out her past, something she would forget.

Yet still her heart thumped painfully in her chest, and the words would not come. "You still carry a sword," Vilkas said at last, breaking the silence. It was true. Dragonsbane sat in its sheath at Iona's waist, although she had not used it during this fight.

"What? Oh yeah. I've been getting training as I travel. I lost all the memories of my past lives, so the Nerevar's expertise is gone."

"And the assassin?"

"Yeah, she's gone too. All of them, for good this life?"

"This life?"

"My last one, but I'll see them all again when I die. They're waiting for me, in the place I go next."

"And where is that, exactly?"

"Somewhere warm, and light." She smiled slightly at the recollection. She knew that, when the time came, the pantheon would be a good place to spend eternity.

"I know Kodlak saw me as Harbinger," she said eventually. "But I don't want to be. That's not who I am, it's something out of a past life. I'm the Arch-Mage. I think that's enough for now."

"Aela and I have been sharing the position," Vilkas said after a moment's silence. "I think it's surprised us both how well that's worked out."

"I'm not all that surprised." Silence fell between them again.

"I have to head back," Vilkas said at last, "Aela was being quite serious when she said there was work to be done."

"Yeah. I've got a lot of catching up to do as well," Iona agreed, nodding slightly. He turned and began to walk away, up the hill.

"Oh by the blood of Akatosh," Lydia grumbled, storming over to stand next to Iona. "You're useless you know that?"

"What do you mean?" she asked taken aback.

"You know how things work in Skyrim, right?"

"Still not getting you."

"Take this," Lydia said, shoving something into Iona's hands. "Put it on, and go have a chat with the man who looked for you almost the entire time you were gone."

Iona looked down at what Lydia had given to her, and saw that it was a necklace – an amulet of Mara. The words of the mother goddess hung in her mind, and she smiled, realising now what they meant.

She looped the amulet around her neck, and ran up the hill.

Iona, Dragonborn and Arch-mage of the College of Winterhold, and member of the Companions, had finally put the past behind her. At last she could look forward to the future.


End file.
